


Death Takes A Holiday: The End of All Things

by LyraNgalia, rude_not_ginger



Series: Death Takes A Holiday [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Airplane Sex, Airplanes, Art Theft, Bad Parenting, Blood and Gore, Bondage, Candles, Car Accidents, Car Chases, Criminal Masterminds, Cunnilingus, Deductions, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gen, Goodbye Sex, Great Hiatus, Heist, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Human Trafficking, Intellectual Foreplay, Missed Opportunities, Morse Code, Moscow, Murder, Murder Mystery, Non-Consensual Spanking, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Paddling, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Power Play, Public Sex, References to Child Abuse, Rope Bondage, Seduction, Sensation Play, Sentimental, Sentimental Sherlock, Sex, Showers, Spanking, Submission, Terminal Emotional Obstruction, Theft, Unexpected Sentiment, Unexpected Visitors, Vaginal Fingering, Wax Play, references to human trafficking, resolved emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 83,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after their chance meeting in Montenegro, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes have lived a lifetime in their respective deaths. Now, as they arrive in Moscow, changed and scarred by their holiday and by each other, will they be able to live one last adventure, or will the need to return to the lives they've chosen for themselves hinder their goodbyes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Guest

**Author's Note:**

> Please see [_Death Takes A Holiday: In the Shadow of the Black Mountain_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/694742) for notes/explanations on the peculiarities of this fic's writing style.

The twenty minute detour she had suggested took seventeen minutes, most of which had been used up catching the attention of the geriatric arms dealer Irene had chosen. The man was a maestro, his weapons works of art, though he was notoriously hard of hearing, and, since the last time Irene had met him, it appeared his vision was going the way of his hearing.  
  
And it had taken precious little to smuggle the weapon she'd chosen through. It was, after all, a small delicate thing carried by a beautiful and poised woman. The bored security guard doing cursory checks eyed it, and Irene had simply smiled and showed him the red silk ribbon meant for a bow, and he had nodded and waved her through, a secretary buying a trinket for her employer.  
  
After that, it was merely a moment's work to hide the weapon on her body, and meet Sherlock Holmes onboard the airplane.  
  
***  
  
Irene watches, her expression artfully bored, as the air hostess demonstrates the location of the exit doors in the event of an emergency. She accepts a glass of middling quality champagne from another hostess, her scarf tied hastily about her neck as the result of a liaison with one of her fellow attendants, and waits until the first finishes her demonstration.  
  
As soon as the woman informs her inattentive audience in Russian that they should remain seated, Irene undoes her seat belt, picks up her champagne glass, and moves directly into Sherlock Holmes' seat.  
  
She moves with her usual grace, all control and teasing touches, but the look in her eye is expectant, the arch of her brow no doubt familiar to him. An expectant, wordless challenge. She has not told him what the weapon she'd procured had been, nor has she told him that it was now hidden on her body. She simply slips into his seat, invading his space without a word, and waits.  
  
"Well now, what kind of employer retains my master assassin?" she asks. "The sort that appreciates the artistry, or the type that revels in twisting refinement to bloody murder?"

 

"Perhaps the kind that simply prefers to only employ the best," Sherlock replies, his own expression the same sort of artfully bored look that she had only seconds earlier. "Although our situation mimics that of our dearly departed Jim, I have no intention to _become_ him. That sort of madness is not duplicated without slipping into it."  
  
Her body was pressed carefully against his, invading his space, invading his _area_. She must have had her weapon of choice somewhere on her body. Somewhere that either was absolutely not touching, or was absolutely touching in such a way that he should have felt it but did not.  
  
Gun was boring, obvious, and not the Woman at all. It had to be something slender. She had to be able to take it through the sensors of the flight. Glass, perhaps. Lined with steel. While Sherlock missed the possibility of playing with the coach section, of guessing the lives of the people around them, this was an excellent game in itself.  
  
"And what sort of an assassin takes to the life of a madame in her off-hours? Or is that a side hobby?"

 

His expression is a perfect mirror to her own earlier one, but Irene sees his interest in his eyes, in the tension that ripples subtly through him as she invades his space and takes a seat, her hip pressed against his leg. Her dress makes it difficult to hide anything at her waist, and any attempt on his part to wrap an arm around her waist to check for a weapon would find nothing. She smirks and arches up against him to press a kiss to his jaw, the motion brushing her front against him. Again, an obvious place to hide a weapon, but where one was equally obviously _not_.  
  
The only clue was perhaps a garter strap high on her left thigh, currently not pressed up against him.  
  
"One who isn't quite as highly paid as she'd prefer to be," she teases. "Or who enjoys multiple challenges."

 

"With a client who doubles as a potential investor," Sherlock says, twitching his nose. "I don't have to have a sexual interest in this, of course."  
  
Because that would be...not impossible, of course, merely awkward. He enjoys focusing sexual energies on the Woman next to him. On the way her hip presses against him, on the garter against her thigh. Her ankles, the shape of her calves. Her heels are mid-height, now. Nothing so tall as she used to wear. No hidden blades within a stiletto heel, then. Shame, that would have been _absolutely_ her.  
  
He lifts his hand, raising it up to touch the side of her jaw. Not stroke, just gently touch it. To be reminded of its warmth, of her presence. Of the fragility of their holiday.  
  
"Making a mark of the investor is one of your challenges, I assume," he says.

 

"Assumptions rather than deductions now?" she asks, feigning innocence. She does not move away from the touch of his hand against her jaw, instead enjoying the warm solidity of his presence.  
  
"Perhaps the investor is distracted from business," she continues, crossing her legs, the knee-length hem of her dress edging a few inches upward. "I think he wants to be impressive. Mixing business with pleasure."

 

He turns his eyes upwards, locking them to hers.  
  
"Impressing the Woman he's employed? Now that's a bit reckless of him, don't you think? Not good for a wealthy man with a lot to lose."

 

"Neither is hiring an assassin," she reminds him, her lips quirking into a self-satisfied smile, her eyes never leaving his. Her fingers rest lightly on his knee, tracing an idle spiral against the fabric of his trousers. "But he's already done that, so what's one more incidental risk?

 

"He likes protection," he says, leaning in. "Feeling safe means being surrounded by the most dangerous. Funny how that works."  
  
He moves his other hand to her knee without breaking eye contact. He knows where she's keeping the weapon, and simply reaching for it would be like cheating. He'll wait. Something slender, possibly non-metal, and something trademark. Trademark in a garter, perhaps? She seemed to know what would be right for her. Her. The Woman. What is something that he would think of when he thinks of her?  
  
When he closes his eyes and imagines her in his Mind Palace, what is the Woman? What does she have that could be translated into a weapon? She's wearing nothing, of course. Just as he saw her. Nothing but her stiletto shoes.

 

Her fingers trace up his knee, drawing looping curlicues against his thigh. Looping curlicues that morph into the M that begins Montenegro. She chuckles, low in her throat, her lips still close to his jaw. "So he chooses the consummate professional for his assassin," she hums. "He knows she'll be loyal as long as she's being paid. Flirting with the appearance of danger then. Something to stimulate while he spends all that time cowering in his bought safety."

 

"A coward at heart. Most of the wealthy are."  
  
Most of the wealthy. Had the Woman truly beaten the British government, she'd have been one of the very, very few who wasn't. He moves his hand up her thigh, but doesn't move inwards, doesn't break eye contact.  
  
"Bought safety, moving into something as low as human trafficking. We've got ourselves quite the terrible man I'm playing, Woman."  
  
He leans in, gently brushing his lips against her ear.  
  
"Stiletto."

 

It is odd that a single word can send a shiver down her spine, as if she were as ordinary as the flight attendant who liked to mix business with pleasure. But then, the single word that falls from Sherlock Holmes' lips is not a sweet nothing, not a meaningless bit of flattery, but a deduction, something clever and unmistakable.  
  
Irene smirks, laughing low in her throat. She deliberately misinterprets him, because she refuses to let him win so easily, and she nudges his knee with her own, as if daring him to reach for the weapon strapped to her inner thigh. The motion also allows her to gesture to the shoes on her feet with a smirk.  
  
"A bit low for stilettos. I'd consider that a stacked heel."

 

"Slight pressure on the right side of the garter, indicates something tucked into the left side, the interior, no more than a few millimeters thick, and something that can be avoided by airport security," Sherlock purrs into her ear. "It would be placed vertically along the plane of your body facing the cameras, so as to avoid the initial scans. And it would have to be something that was _you_."  
  
And the Woman wore nothing in his Mind Palace but a pair of stiletto heels.  
  
He slid his hand downward, tracing the folded stiletto dagger there.  
  
"Ivory or ebony?"

 

It is not the touch of his hand against the fabric of her dress, outlining the hidden stiletto that sends another shiver down her spine, but the words that he purrs into her ear, the deduction and the mind behind them. She leans into him, her body warm against the planes of his, as she rests her head at the curve of his neck and shoulder, her own lips nearly touching the pulse point beneath his skin.  
  
"Neither," she purrs back. "Silver and mother of pearl."

 

Damn, it was always something.  
  
At the same time, he was acutely aware of how much space was in this seat, and how close it was to the lavatory, where they could steal away if they needed to. Her breath was warm against his skin---  
  
"Which is easily deducible from across the room, really."  
  
The voice of Mycroft Holmes was like throwing cold water across Sherlock. He didn't so much leap away from the Woman as jerk back to find if the source of the voice was really and truly nearby, or just some product of a nightmare.  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened. Of the people he expected on this plane, Mycroft was 12th-to-last on the list. Maybe 43rd-to-last, if he broadened the list to more exotic people. 443rd if he also added in the recently deceased that may not actually have died or had some possibility of getting away from that situation. All the same, Mycroft was not expected.  
  
"You two do make quite the amorous couple. Not something I would have anticipated considering your rather sordid pasts."

 


	2. The Trail Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes' appearance in first class on the plane from St. Petersburg to Moscow threatens Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes plan for one last adventure before they must part ways. The Woman and the Consulting Detective must now slip the noose of the British Government without giving away their latest secret: the Inconvenience.

Mycroft Holmes' voice is about as welcome as a plague rat in first class, and a glance back into the seat behind them confirms his physical presence. Six thoughts fly through Irene's mind and the first and foremost is the significant possibility that if she rose and returned to her seat, Mycroft would note the subtle changes in her body that she and Sherlock had both willfully ignored.  
  
Irene's hand grasps Sherlock's wrist as she schools her expression to cold disdain, and her fingernails dig into his skin in quick, precise strokes.   
  
_\- .... . / ..-. . - ..- ..._  
  
She does not dare look down at herself, lest even that gave them away. Instead, she gives Mycroft a sharp vicious look. "No? I'm flattered that you've so thoroughly blocked our souvenir of Stockholm from your memory."

 

Mycroft's smile is twisted, irritated. It is as pleasant as a man eating a large slice of lemon. "I haven't, actually. Luckily my old friend was willing to stay an extra day away while his office was cleaned thoroughly. If only my memory of the situation could have been the same."  
  
He turns his head back to Sherlock. "You couldn't have had one of these liaisons back during university, when it would have been easier to clean up? Fewer people would have died during a co-ed tryst."  
  
The Woman's fingers slide across Sherlock's wrist. _The fetus_ , she spells out. Anything she does physically could give herself away to Mycroft. And Mycroft, of course, will be looking.  
  
"You came all the way out here yourself, Mycroft, so you must want _something_ ," Sherlock snaps. "Out with it."  
  
"Not everything I do is for _my_ benefit, brother mine."

 

"No, but everything you do is for the benefit of Queen and Country," Irene answers, scorn dripping from every word.  
  
She pointedly turns her attention from Mycroft, ignoring the British Government as if he were just another irritating passenger, and returns her attention to Sherlock. At the same time, she picks up the half-full glass of champagne she'd accepted from the flight attendant earlier, and takes a sip.  
  
A calculated risk, as all of hers were. The amount of alcohol in a single serving of champagne was hardly enough to do The Inconvenience any harm, but it was a careless, routine sort of gesture that would take the very _idea_ of pregnancy off of most anyone's radar. The dog that barked when it was expected to, rather than the silence that invited investigation.  
  
"He thinks a university tryst would have ended in fewer bodies," she says to Sherlock, her tone conversational, mocking. "Seems your dear brother doesn't know everything, does he?"

 

"He had a great amount of control over what happened in university for me," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. Mycroft had bought out any friends he had attempted to acquire, and so Sherlock gave up on the idea, and his professors were too boring to be truly interested in. Mycroft even had his dealers paid to spy on him. It was unbearable. At least now he has the Woman, and John, and his privacy. Freedom.  
  
Moscow has to be free. He won't have his last place with the Woman tainted by Mycroft's hovering presence. The Woman takes a sip of her champagne, and that should keep Mycroft from thinking of anything related to her pregnancy, at least for the moment. The longer she stays around Mycroft, the faster he'll work it out.   
  
His own champagne sits untouched, and he reaches out, taking a longer, less precise drink from it. His eyes drift over to the drink servers. To the amorous hostess, her illicit lover, and the disinterested male server whose eyes drift from dark-haired passenger to dark-haired passenger. Interesting.  
  
"As I was saying," Mycroft repeats. "Despite how you two might feel about the situation in San Salvador, I'm afraid we're going to have to mend our relationship and work things out, so Sherlock can return to London."  
  
"I suppose you mean _now_ ," Sherlock says.  
  
"I don't mean _later_ , Sherlock," Mycroft says. "Most of Moriarty's web has been scattered, they have nothing holding it together. It's not as if you have anything important keeping you away anymore."

 

She is careful, watchful, as Sherlock takes his drink, as the Holmes brothers traded snipes. Mycroft's attention is split between them, and Irene knows that it is the slimmest advantage they have. He is aware of them both, and thus not thoroughly aware of either.   
  
Irene's lips thin, and she knows he will interpret her watchfulness as distrust, as the disdain she has for him, rather than the fact that it is an obvious attempt to hide her pregnancy. A pregnancy that would certainly be obvious if she were to move, to rise.   
  
And despite her threat to Sherlock about sending The Inconvenience to be raised by the elder Holmes brother, Irene had absolutely no interest in letting Mycroft Holmes know about the existence of said Inconvenience.   
  
Time. Their advantage would only last so long. She glances at Sherlock, notes the way his eyes drifted over the cabin, pausing ever so slightly on something she cannot see with interest. She is uncertain what has caught his interest, but she knows that it would not have caught his interest unless it could be used to their advantage. To keep the imminent threat of Moscow free from the influence of Mycroft Holmes.  
  
Odd, how she trusts him with Moscow.  
  
"That wasn't what you said in Nassau, Mr. Holmes," Irene sneers, purposely drawing Mycroft's attention. "If I recall, you'd have preferred Moriarty's network headed by someone else rather than scattered."

 

"I also prefer that my bargains be fulfilled," Mycroft answers, his voice sharp. "There was a caveat to you having Moriarty's web without any strings attached, and we both are perfectly aware that you did not fulfill this at all."  
  
"Did this involve lying to me?" Sherlock snaps. "Telling me that she was dead, keeping her movements from me completely? Are you _jealous_ that there's someone I want to keep around who isn't you or John?"  
  
That wasn't something he meant to say around the Woman, but it is, really, obvious.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, you have your life, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "I am simply attempting to assist in...weeding out bad material.

 

"Bargains have to be accepted before they're fulfilled, Mr. Holmes. And I was explicitly clear when I told you to get out," Irene answers coolly. Her expression is frozen in sneering dismissal, refusing to look at Sherlock. The words he flings at his brother are vicious in their own way, but there is an implication in that too, of sentiment.  
  
The one woman that mattered.  
  
She turns to Sherlock then, tilting her head ever so slightly towards Mycroft. "'Weeding out bad material,'" she quotes. She is pushing his buttons, she knows. Feeding him the opportunity to be enraged, to sulk, over his brother's presence. To, if necessary, remove himself to whatever it was that had caught his interest.  
  
"Should I be flattered that the British Government considers me a cancer that should be excised from your presence by any means necessary?"

 

Before Sherlock can answer, Mycroft interrupts. "Flattered? I shouldn't think so. After all, your presence is only acceptable so long as you're not harming or disrupting my brother's life."  
  
"Oh, for god's sake, Mycroft, you can't control me like a child," Sherlock snapped. At least his irritation wasn't faked. The Woman was allowing him some leeway to escape.  
  
"I can if you keep acting like one," Mycroft retorted. "Snogging in the front class like a couple of teenagers? _Really_?"

 

Even if she had not already loathed Mycroft Holmes for having seen her at her most undone, Irene would have found it easy to dislike him now, not simply for his unwanted presence, but for the condescending way he spoke now, as if they were actual children and he some long-suffering older sibling flush in the self-righteous, infallibility of some nebulous Greater Experience.

"If he were treating you like a child, he'd let you fall and scrape your knees," she interrupts, ignoring Mycroft utterly. "He appears to be treating you like a barely tolerated pet, sending you back to your pen like a dog that's slipped the fence."

 

"You're describing an entire childhood in a nutshell, Woman," Sherlock replies.  
  
"You are aware that you sound like some sort of a primal beast, Sherlock," Mycroft retorts. "Calling for his mate. 'Woman' this, and 'Woman' that."  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrow. "You're being deliberately antagonistic."  
  
"That is how you have always seen me."  
  
"Moreso than normal." Sherlock's lips curl up into a smirk. "It's the photographs, isn't it? They must have found the photographs on your mobile. Were they cross at that sort of _pornographic_ work being shared?"

 

It does not matter one iota to Irene Adler what Mycroft Holmes thinks of her; in fact she knows quite well, given his obvious sentiment for his brother and the fact that he was overly fond of expressing to her just how little he thought of her for entangling him. It does, however, rankle to hear the title that had become an epithet and as close as they would ever get to an endearment fall from Mycroft's lips.  
  
It irritates her so much that it takes her an extra three seconds to see what Sherlock does, that it had been a deliberate attempt to antagonize Sherlock. Or perhaps her.  
  
And so her lips thin as she swallows back the irritation, though that expression becomes a slow smile at Sherlock's next words. "Caught in the act of having explicit photographs on your mobile, Mr. Holmes?" she all but purrs, her attention now focused on Mycroft. There is a subtle shift in her tone, an edge of malice where there had before been something almost like affection, when she turns the surname to the elder Holmes brother.  
  
"My my but what _would_ Her Majesty think."

 

Mycroft's lips twist like he's swallowed a mouthful of lemon. This tells Sherlock he knows _precisely_ what Her Majesty thinks of the photographs that were sent.  
  
"I imagine both of you will be glad to know that you'll be back in London tomorrow to discuss it there," Mycroft says. "I have arranged a group to meet us once we land in Moscow."  
  
A group to meet there, which means that there's no one or very few people here, apart from Mycroft. Sherlock and the Woman could avoid those who were to meet them in Moscow, but they had to lose Mycroft first.  
  
The flight attendant caught Sherlock's eye, and smirked. He needed to get away from this seat.

 

Another spark of anger flares, and despite Irene reminding herself that it is deliberate, that anger is meant to make them sloppy, she cannot help but wish for a way to rise, to brandish the signs of her pregnancy at Mycroft and turn his obsequious patriotism to absolute speechlessness.  
  
She turns her attention fully away from Sherlock, careful not to move too much, to keep as much distance, as much of the enveloping, cocooning seat between herself and Mycroft as possible. She sets the now-empty champagne glass down on the seat rest, and glares at the man behind the British Government.  
  
"And how exactly did you explain the sudden resurrection of a woman you once swore was dead? Such a hit to your credibility. Did they recognize that the greatest slip in your security was still your little brother?"

 

"They never had to, Miss Adler," Mycroft replies. The _Miss_ is tart with patronization, reminding her of her unmarried, untitled nature. She is, in many ways, classes below the Holmeses while she is on the run, and Sherlock can tell that Mycroft enjoys subtly reminding her of that.  
  
"I need something stronger than champagne," Sherlock grumbles, getting to his feet.  
  
"The red purse above the fifth cabinet," Mycroft says. "If you're going to attempt to steal the Xanax from the woman two rows up in order to drug me. But I won't be stupid enough to drink anything you would hand me. Little brother."  
  
Sherlock's face is purposefully, mindfully cold. He gives a long, meaningful look at the Woman that he can only hope looks like some plan has been ruined. He still heads down the hallway, towards the cabinets and where the alcohol is kept.

 

The long look Sherlock gives her freezes Irene's expression into the hostile sneer she had adopted at the elder Holmes' insinuation. Behind the mask, her mind races, because if Mycroft had deduced Sherlock's plan, he would not have simply continued leaving, which means there _was_ a plan and it had not been foiled.  
  
But she could not work it out or betray her interest in doing so lest she tipped their hand. Which meant playing distraction. To keep Mycroft's attention off Sherlock's search for alcohol. No doubt he considered _that_ new vice her influence.  
  
"If you're so interested in reminding me of my past, Mr. Holmes," she answers coldly. "Then let's talk about those incriminating photographs. Did Her Majesty realize they were of your brother, or did she recognize her gift to the Swedish minister on his desk?"

 

"She merely believed it was some sort of a prank sent through my phone in order to irritate me. Which it did, in fact. Thank you for that."  
  
Mycroft's face twists again. His clear distaste for the Woman is obvious. He finds her to be low, a sex worker who has somehow charmed his brother through her manipulations, and Sherlock _detests_ the fact that it is all that Mycroft can see. He's missing what is _obvious_ he's missing how much more the Woman is.  
  
Like a good teacher.  
  
Sherlock easily palms the Xanax on his walk to the alcohol as the Woman distracts Mycroft, and he steps up, nearly walking into the flight attendant from before.  
  
"You all right, mate?" the attendant asks.  
  
"Sorry, yes, just taking a break." He untwists the prescription bottle. "Bit awkward back there."  
  
"Noticed the tension. Old...friend?"  
  
"Something like that." He holds up the bottle. "Want one?"

 

"An irritant, was it?" Irene drawls, running a fingertip along the rim of the empty champagne glass. She smirks, because it is what Mycroft Holmes expects, that her power is in her secrets, and he believes he has defanged them, that he can indulge in sneering at her for her former profession, for the history of hers that he knows.  
  
She can see it in his sneer, in the distaste that he offers so freely. He remembers her helpless, with tears in her eyes as she begs for forgiveness. The memory burns like bile in her throat, and she expects his eye to be drawn to the well-manicured nails and the glass. To the threat of violence stirred by her anger and her burning memory.  
  
Instead she sweeps her eyes pointedly over him. "An extra three kilos, isn't it?" she purrs. "Obvious, if you knew where to look. You eat when you're stressed, and given twelve hours to... put the Stockholm office to rights, that _was_ stressful."

 

Mycroft doesn't bother to correct her, doesn't bother to explain himself. He simply gives her a cursory glance up and down. Where the Woman knows what people like, she also knows how to push buttons, and she's found something that easily and quickly distracts Mycroft---his sensitivity about his weight. It's an almost juvenile sensitivity.  
  
"You're one to talk, Miss Adler. You and my brother have been treating yourselves rather well on stolen credit cards, or so I've been tracking."  
  
He pulls out his notebook, flipping to the first page. "Expensive clothing, shoes. Plenty of fine wine, food. New jewelry." He looks over the notebook. "But one very specific piece that has traveled quite the distance. His eyes fall on her ring. "One I distinctly remember."  
  
Mycroft's voice is cold, focused.  
  
Sherlock, conversely, is pressed up against the side of the bar, with one hand inside of his trousers, and the flight attendant's mouth on his. Again, the Woman is an excellent teacher. A few cursory glances at the man, a few deductions about his life, and he was able to extrapolate about what he might like. He couldn't take too long, Mycroft would notice his absence. But he did need to create some sort of rapport with Felix---the man he was now attempting to gain an erection for---in order to have this plan work.

 

For a moment, as Mycroft's eyes sweep over her, Irene considers that she has pushed too hard, that the comment about his weight had made Mycroft notice the changes in her body, but when he brings out the notebook, she relaxes, and risks glancing back towards the galley where Sherlock had headed.  
  
It is a quick glance, and all she sees is a ripple of the curtain, either recently let fall together or pulled apart for a peek.   
  
The mention of the ring, however, causes Irene to narrow her eyes, to glare coldly at him. She curls the fingers of her left hand together, as if to hide the obvious glint of gold.   
  
"From the surveillance cameras in the Las Vegas hospital, no doubt," she answers, feigning a tightness to her voice, as if the remark about the ring had scored a point. "Must have taken ages to track us all the way there."

 

"Hardly. You two were anything but subtle." He reaches out a hand for hers. "Show me?"

 


	3. Lessons Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every second they remain within Mycroft Holmes' attention is another second in which their greatest secret may be discovered. But just how far will Sherlock and Irene go to keep the secret growing in her body safe from Mycroft?

She curls her fingers into a protective fist, and she does not move to meet his hand. No doubt he'd consider it a victory, to see her so viscerally protective of the trinket. But it is more than the thought of keeping the ring from Mycroft's influence (though that was sizable) but also to keep as much distance as physically possible between them.  
  
She looks up again, this time not bothering to hide her look. Discomfited, obvious. Looking for the _protection_ he was so certain she still operated under. "No doubt you've already studied it by description and photographs to your satisfaction. The previous owner kept excellent records given what he could not admit to owning."

 

Mycroft is clearly not used to being denied, and he holds his hand up for an extra moment before finally lowering it, his irritation back.  
  
"You could have easily sold it. Bought an island. And yet you wear it. _Constantly._ "  
  
"It suits her."  
  
Sherlock slides back into his seat, this time with two tumblers of whiskey, his own more than half gone. He hasn't acquired the ability to look completely put-together that the Woman has, but he sincerely doubts that Mycroft or the Woman would suspect it is for the reason that he knows it to be. He feels high from the Xanax, and a little warm from the drink. He drops one next to him, for the Woman. He knows she won't drink, but making one for her and not one for Mycroft is important.  
  
"We could select something sparkly for you, if you'd like, Mycroft. It isn't a long flight, though. We'll need to start right away."

 

Irene moves in his seat, allowing him to join her as her gaze sweeps over Sherlock at his return, her attention lingering on the line of his shirt, wrinkles that had not been there before. She did not linger too long, lest her attention catches the elder Holmes' and give away whatever game he was playing, though she does run a fingertip over the tumbler of whiskey he brings with a small quirk of her lips.

She shakes her head and tsks, disappointed, at Mycroft. "Now now, you know as well as I do that your dossier calls me a magpie, scavenging for secrets to keep. Surely it's no stretch of even your imagination that such a glowing recommendation would extend to jewelry."

 

"Ah, yes, the _magpie_. Or the mayfly. Living for a day, but causing such destruction in her wake," Mycroft replies. "Or perhaps you think this is some sort of a casual romance that can be easily picked up and left off on. Something to be worn sentimentally on your fingers."  
  
He gestures in the direction of Sherlock, and Sherlock has the notion to take his brother's fingers and break them. Break them all at once. He doesn't, of course. He has to give Felix a little time, after all.  
  
"You must have realized that your death in London caused him _pain_ , that was your intention," Mycroft continues. "But he is not emotionally capable of handling adult romances. He starved himself over the thought of your death, may very well have turned back to drugs, as we saw on the Las Vegas videos, you've experienced _that_ side of him before---"  
  
"I'm not a child, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps.

 

The tension in Sherlock's jaw is obvious, and up close Irene sees the faint flush on his skin, the slight dilation of the eyes, as well as the imminent violence in his fingers at Mycroft Holmes' words.

She rests a hand on his, her fingertips light and cool against his leg, the gesture at once intimate and with a certain amount of possessiveness that she wants Mycroft to see without seeing exactly what her fingers are doing against his leg.

_\- --- --- / -... .- -.. / .... . .----. -.. / -... . / -- .. ... ... . -.._

"And yet here we both are despite your best efforts," she adds, calm on the heels of Sherlock's obvious irritation. "And you're still quite obviously trying to provoke one of us to actually break your nose. I expect you'd enjoy that. It'd give you a reason to have us detained by security." She tilts her head towards Sherlock, a small smirk on her lips. "I have my deductions on why he's still trying this course of action. You?"  
  


_Too bad he'd be missed_ , her fingertips spell against his leg. Her possessiveness isn't missed to Mycroft, whose face manages somehow to look even less pleased by her touch. There is also _envy_ there, an envy for closeness that Sherlock would never allow his older brother. He'd never allow him to be possessive, would never allow him to be _possessed_. Not in the way that the Woman does, and not in the way that Mycroft would want.  
  
His older brother wants a pet. The Woman wants a partner.  
  
"He wants to make us angry, I think. Wants to make us doubt each other, perhaps?" Sherlock says.  
  
Mycroft's sneer softens, just slightly. No, that wasn't the reason, then.  
  
"Water, sir?" the male flight attendant near Mycroft says, offering him one of the glasses on his tray. Mycroft reaches up, taking it.

 

She laughs at that, a low velvety sound, as she studies Mycroft Holmes. There is an aloof, removed quality to her look, as if she is examining an unexpected insect, something out of her sphere of usual interests.  
  
"If his goal had been to sow dissent, then why tell you I had died in Nassau? He'd been ready to pay for the privilege." she reminds him. She gestures vaguely at Mycroft to punctuate her point and gives the flight attendant a cursory glance. "And as contrary as you enjoy being, I doubt his disapproval is meant to drive you further into my arms."

 

The look Mycroft gives the Woman at the term 'drive you into my arms' is absolutely _priceless_ , and calls out a low laugh from Sherlock as well.  
  
"Does everyone you ever have in your life enjoy not acting like a grownup?" Mycroft snaps. He takes a long drink of his water and places it down, very primly, on the wooden armrest next to him.  
  
"Do you think they would get along with me very well if they did, Mycroft? You vision of 'grownup' is extremely boring."

 

They are creatures of economy when it comes to gestures, to touch. A look tells them histories about others, a gesture carries with it an entire explanation. When they are most intimately themselves, the touch of a fingertip against a pulse point speaks volumes. When they play at disguise and at roles, their touches reflect their guises.

  
And it was a role they were each playing now, the roles Mycroft Holmes expected of them. Sherlock the unrepentant petulant brother, forever six years old, her the venomous viper entangling herself in his affairs. It was precisely that role that Irene is playing to when she leans against Sherlock, smirking at his low laugh against her skin, raising an indolent hand to the whiskey he'd brought her.

  
"Your definition of 'grownup' is dreadfully boring, Mr. Holmes," she informs Mycroft, "I prefer ours."  
  
She ignores him again, knowing there is little less the elder Holmes liked than to be ignored when he demanded others' attention, and peers into the glass, her words for Sherlock again. "The airline's alcohol, or businessman in the third row's private reserves?"

 

"A little of both for me," Sherlock says, teetering his hand back and forth. "But I'm not one to add anything to a Woman's drink without properly asking first. That's an honor reserved entirely for John Watson, and really only for experimental purposes."  
  
"He's still waiting, you know," Mycroft says. He reaches up, loosening his tie. "John Watson. Waiting back in London, while the two of you play here. Moving on, grieving for the suicide of someone he cares deeply for. While I know your emotional capacity is that of a child, Sherlock, surely you know about grief, and you know what that does to a person."  
  
Sherlock does. He does. He knows that John is back there. He knows that John is hurting and he---he'll be there. In his mind, John is still frozen, still waiting. It's all right, he'll pick up right after he returns, like missing a skip in a vinyl record.  
  
Mycroft swallows heavily and takes another long drink of water.

 

Irene swirls the amber liquid in the glass, the ice cubes clinking lightly against each other. Perhaps it is for his brother's benefit, or it is simply a remnant of their earlier intimacy in St. Petersburg, but she can almost _hear_ the salute in Sherlock's voice. The Woman, when he would never consider calling heroin _the_ heroin no matter its purity.  
  
She turns towards Mycroft again, and she studies him, studies the way he seems uncomfortable, with the tugging at his tie, the quick draining of the water glass. "It's interesting, isn't it, how much effort you'll expend in tracking us as we _play_ , in your words. One imagines it would hardly take more effort to track down three of Jim Moriarty's assassins and eliminate them."

  
A thin, vicious smile begins to grow as she continues conversationally, "We've proven that can be done, after all, and with far fewer resources than you have at your disposal, Mr. Holmes. So if you're so interested in your brother and John Watson's well-being, why not remove those threats since learning of your brother's resurrection in order to speed his return? Why allow him to _linger_ and John Watson to _grieve_ if it's well within your power to end both? It's hardly as if you trust Sherlock. Or are you simply punishing them both for Sherlock having fooled you with his 'suicide'?"

 

"Too many lines I can't cross," Mycroft says, though his eyebrows start to knit together. Sweat forms on his forehead. Sherlock's lips turn upwards.  
  
"Perhaps you should take a lesson in crossing lines, then," Sherlock says. "I did. Had the best teacher, in fact. You see, even only a few months ago, neither of us would have assumed I'd be the sort to seduce an airline attendant in order to drug your water."  
  
Felix passes by, tossing a wink in Sherlock's direction.  
  
"As it is, you being unconscious when we arrive at Moscow is far more important to me than the _pride_ you throw yourself so heavily on," he adds.

 


	4. A Demonstration in Newly Acquired Skills (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler have learned more from each other than Mycroft Holmes imagined. With Mycroft momentarily incapacitated, they are now free to make the British Government's life more difficult as they make their escape...

And it is as if a key turns, and the clues she had noticed earlier all fall into place with a click. The wrinkles in Sherlock's shirt, the fall of his hair when he'd returned, the warmth of his skin, all of it explained with the flight attendant's obvious preference for tall, dark haired men and his wink.  
  
Irene laughs then, genuine and positively delighted, as she watches the realization dawn on Mycroft Holmes' face. She turns back to Sherlock, and the cold, poisonous cobra smile she'd given Mycroft softens to something far more speculative, far more wicked as she regards him, her pupils dilating as she sees the other clues that she had seen but not realized for what they were.  
  
"And it would seem you're as quick a student in this as in everything else," she purrs, setting down the glass blindly as her other hand curls into his shirt. The fact that this might be the last thing Mycroft Holmes sees before he properly loses consciousness makes it all the more delightful as she pulls Sherlock towards her. "I have more than half a mind to have you right now, Mr. Holmes."

 

Sherlock grins wickedly, leaning in to press a passionate kiss to the Woman's mouth as Mycroft loses consciousness. He hopes his brother imagines all sorts of scenarios happening in the seat in front of him.  
  
Sadly, his body isn't recharged and ready for a second round after his brief interaction with Felix in the upper cabin, but he does enjoy the intense kiss with the Woman, enjoys knowing that he can both surprise her and entice her with what he can do. She did, after all, teach him a new way to use his mind, and a new way to use the skills he'd never used before.  
  
Interpersonal skills, after all, were tools he found weak, unimportant. Until her.  
  
Mycroft lets out a quiet snore.

 

Her mouth on his is quick and demanding, all intensity and a rough nip at his lip as she parts his lips with hers, her tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting the lingering whiskey on his tongue as her hand slides down his front to her own thigh, pushing up her own dress until she liberated the silver and mother-of-pearl handled stiletto knife from her garter.   
  
She presses it against his chest with a heady, bright-eyed laugh as she pulls away from him for a breath. "I'll have to remember that is now part of your repertoire, Mr. Holmes," she says, throwing one leg teasingly over him, momentarily straddling him as she moves across his seat.

 

Felix would give them all the space they needed, and Sherlock keeps his hand between her thigh, tracing a lazy circle with his forefinger, in complete contrast to the demanding way she moves and the heat of their mouths.  
  
" _Do_ ," he says. "Because I know that deduction and observation are part of _yours_."  
  
They've learned so much from each other, he thinks. They've learned, they continue to learn. And they would part, learn on their own, and share. Or deduce. Whichever.  
  
"Thirty minutes until we land," he says. "Instruct me."

 

She kisses him again, a low hum building in her throat at the touch of his finger against her thigh. "First lesson," she murmurs, moving momentarily to allow him better access before she puts her foot back on the ground, still mostly splayed against him, "I am emptying his pockets for every scrap of identification and authority he has."  
  
She nips at his lip again, and this time does put weight back on her leg, drawing away from him to rise and stand. "Why make it easy for your brother in Moscow once he wakes up?"

 

Sherlock's smile widens, and his finger slides up her thigh, just a little higher. He leans forward, pressing his lips against her throat. She knows exactly what to say to him, and exactly what he _likes_.  
  
"Absolutely," he purred. "And we'll leave the Xanax in his pocket, shall we? Just in case someone finds him first."

 

The way his finger runs up her thigh makes Irene want to very much stay in the seat with him, but it is imperative that she make Mycroft Holmes' life as actively difficult as possible in these last few moments, to give them as much time as possible to slip the noose he'd attempted to wrap around their throats.  
  
It also reinforced the reminder that Moscow _would_ be the end. That it was simply too dangerous to avoid the end of their holiday, when he would be in pursuit, and the secret she carried a liability between them.  
  
"Clever," she praises, her hand sliding down his chest to reach into his pocket for the Xanax as she stands on her own two feet again. "He's been tracking us through stolen credit cards. We should give his to someone in coach, I think. Someone with extravagant tastes, headed somewhere exotic. Lebanon, perhaps?"

 

"We'll also give one to Felix," Sherlock says. "He'll have quite a few interesting purchases, I imagine. I'll make certain he buys my brand of cigarettes where he lands next."  
  
He leans back in his seat, watching the Woman. What they have could not possibly be a relationship, nothing so mundane, but whatever it is, it is _brilliant_. It's---undeniably them.

 

Her motions are quick and efficient as she rifles through the sleeping elder Holmes' pockets, removing a well-made, high end, but very discreet leather wallet, a passport, and a cigarette lighter. She replaces them with the Xanax, and pivots on her foot to return but at a thought, pauses, and reaches back for the notebook Mycroft had consulted regarding their extravagant purchases.  
  
With them in hand, she returns to Sherlock's seat, straddling him again with absolutely no qualms as to propriety. "Rewarding your new lover already?" she teases. "Should I be jealous?"

 

"Hardly," Sherlock replies. "Mycroft will think it's me, trying to put him off my scent by taking his wallet. He'll be furious, of course. He might work it out, but he'll need to send _someone_ to be certain. It'll be, if nothing else, a hassle. Which is all I intend to be for him."  
  
For a long _long_ time.  
  
"Make certain you give him a terribly non-traditional name," Sherlock says, without preamble. "Something wild and non-conformist. Mycroft would always say that he wanted our children to be Richards and Williamses to make up for our parents' creativity. Just make certain that he doesn't have that when you're choosing a name."

 

She leans down to kiss him again, to trace her mouth along his jaw, and Irene chuckles at his sudden change of topic. She leaves the contents of Mycroft's pockets on the small side table, next to the tumbler of whiskey and melting ice, and picks up the stiletto again.   
  
She taps its folded length against his chest, and moved to tuck it back into place at her thigh. "Second lesson. I am _not_ naming her after you."

 

He reaches out, tracing his thumb across the blade.  
  
"An appropriate weapon," he says.   
  
"And we really wouldn't want two Sherlock Holmes running around the planet, would we?"

 

"Expecting to make her a Holmes now?" she reminds him with a smirk, looking at him from beneath lowered lashes, her eyes hooded as she follows the motion of his thumb along the slim folded blade.   
  
"She'll be an Adler. And you did suggest a trademark weapon."

 

"Perhaps he'll pick his own surname when he opens his detective agency."  
  
He leans in to press his lips against the inside of her knee.

 

She scoffs at his suggestion, though it is, of course, at least feasible any child of theirs might be interested in detective work. Deductions and people were puzzles they both found fascinating in their own ways, why wouldn't any child of theirs.  
  
Irene's fingers curl into his hair as he presses his lips to the tender skin at her knee, and her eyes gleam as her nails trace little circles against his scalp.   
  
"The question remains, Mr. Holmes," she says conspiratorially, "How quick of a study have you really been, and how much do you think you can really get away with in this seat in front of all of these dreadfully boring people and one unconscious one who'll realize exactly what's happened once he wakes?"

 

He kisses a little above her knee, and a little slower this time.  
  
"I could not possibly care less about every other person on this plane, including my unconscious brother," Sherlock murmurs against her skin. "Do you?"  
  
There's a brief announcement, that there is twenty minutes until they land, and they're to expect some mild turbulence.

 

"Not at all," she agrees, her breath hitching at the touch of his lips against her knee again and she continues conspiratorially, "It may, however, slow him down with a little extra dose of nausea."  
  
She ignores the businessman across the aisle, sitting next to the window, whose attention had been drifting over to them, whose hand was now beneath his blanket. Irene's fingers tighten in Sherlock's hair as she continues, "Twenty minutes, Mr. Holmes, to prove how quick of a study you've really been."

 

Sherlock doesn't pay the businessman any notice, and immediately moves his mouth upwards, grazing up past her garter, slipping the skirt up and out of her way.  
  
Felix, he imagines, will find this entire situation more than a little amusing, and will do his level best to keep them in as private a way as possible, including bothering the man who was attempting to watch. One of the things that the Woman was right about, was it was good to have people where you needed them.  
  
"I could spend twenty minutes mercilessly teasing you," he murmurs, lips against the belt.

 

Her breath hitches again, at the warmth of his mouth, the breath of his words, against her inner thigh. Her left hand grips the edge of the ample first class seat, fingernails digging into the cloth, leaving behind traces of her grip that someone who knew where to look would immediately be able to read.  
  
"You could, but you like knowing the effect of your little lesson on me far too much to _just_ tease," she answers. It is obvious to them both that his little trick with the flight attendant, his showing off, had been impressive in its unpredictability, in the knowledge that he had learned it from her. And it was equally obvious that she found such feats of his intellect arousing. " _And_ you like the idea of making your brother even sicker to his stomach."

 

"Mmmm, and you are right about that," Sherlock agrees. He moves his mouth upwards. Again. Just a little more. Not a lot of time, can't tease _too_ slowly.  
  
He hears Felix behind them, offering the man water, alcohol, a towel. Sherlock hums as he moves his mouth up, up. She wears no undergarments apart from the garter belt and weapon.  
  
Excellent. And terribly convenient.  
  
"You are planning on sharing that notebook?"

 

"Hmmm..." She tries to sound nonchalant, as if simply considering the question, and that his mouth were not doing terrifically distracting things. She almost manages it, would have managed it, if it weren't for the way he hums against her, the move making her stomach clench with want.  
  
She gasps then, and her fingernails scrape along his scalp, her head lolling back ever so slightly as she peers down at him with heavy lidded eyes.   
  
"Perhaps. And if I said it depended on how well you convince me?"

 

"I'd know you were lying."  
  
He takes a careful lick, tracing his tongue up along her, tasting her. Feeling her warmth against him. This is devious, _filthy_ , and therefore absolutely wonderful in every way he can possibly imagine. And not just because it will make his brother extremely miserable. That's just a bonus.

 

It is more than the feel of his tongue tracing carefully along sensitive nerves that makes her gasp. It is in his words, that he _knows_ she is lying even as she is at once demanding in control and utterly vulnerable against him. And, she will admit, a little part of it is vicious revenge for Mycroft Holmes, for daring to taint the last bit of their holiday with his presence.  
  
Mind and body and revenge. It is how they twist each other into knots, how they are best and how she intends to remember them.  
  
A low moan begins to grow in her throat, and her fingers that had dug furrows into the seat upholstery how reaches for him, to dig those same furrows into his skin, to anchor herself to him as pleasure threatens to crest.   
  
"And if I said _yes_?"

 

He hums, and pulls her clitoris between his lips, suckling on it, stimulating it with his tongue and the vibrations of his mouth. He can hear a noise of disgust from another passenger, and, to be frank, that passenger can go _fuck herself_. He has a lot of other things on his mind. One last journey, one last trip. This is his holiday with the Woman. And he's going to enjoy himself.  
  
He moves a hand down, to slide one finger between her legs, up and inside of her.  
  
He calculates about thirteen minutes until they land. Less than two until major turbulence.

 

She will, of course, say it is simply that their game had stimulated her already, that their intellectual play had been enough to arouse, and certainly not simply his newly developing skills at oral sex that sent her over the edge into orgasm.  
  
It would not be _strictly_ a lie.   
  
Irene cries out as his sucking mouth against her clitoris causes her entire body to clench, feeling her body shudder against his mouth and finger. She does not bother to muffle the sound, a low wanting whimpering moan that causes the voyeuristic businessman to drop his glass of champagne, the disapproving woman to harrumph even louder and pointedly jab at the flight attendant call button to complain.  
  
Her fingers dig deeply into Sherlock's side until she feels the orgasm ebb. Her limbs are heavy, and endorphins race through her bloodstream as she tilts her head, still lolling with pleasure, her eyes dark and dilated, as she turns to look at the disapproving woman.   
  
"Do shut up, pet. Some of us prefer flying with stimulants _other_ than Vicodin."

 


	5. A Collection of Vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The skills he's learned from the Woman has allowed Sherlock Holmes to drug his brother for their escape, but Mycroft's men still await them in Moscow, the net closing despite the British Government's current state of drugged slumber.

Sherlock leans up, a satisfied smirk on his face. God, that was nearly as satisfying as having an orgasm himself, he thinks. He doesn't need to feel the pleasure shoot down his spine, he just needs to see the Woman, her eyes dark, her face flushed, her body writhing. She is _exquisite_.  
  
It's not even half a moment later that the flight attendant appears at her side, two fresh glasses of champagne on a tray.  
  
"I think she might be my new favorite, love," he says, offering her one. "Want me to stow him in the toilets?"  
  
"Or anything equally insulting," Sherlock agrees.

 

Her grip on his hair loosens, and Irene smiles at the flight attendant as she accepts the fresh champagne flutes. "Mmm, you are certainly worth sharing with, even if you're not to my tastes," she tells the flight attendant as she opens Mycroft's wallet and picks a credit card out at random. "One more favour, pet? If you could be dreadfully extravagant with this in your next port of call, we'd appreciate it."  
  
She turns her attention to Sherlock then, and kisses him deeply, tasting herself on his tongue. "You, on the other hand, have been very wicked, Mr. Holmes."

 

The plane begins to shake, and he slides an arm around her waist to hold her in place.  
  
"Part of my appeal, Woman. And you have made quite the scene."  
  
He returns the kiss, allowing himself to be nowhere in the world but here, in a shaking plane, with the Woman in his arms. Mycroft can go right to hell. Everything that is going to pull them apart, including themselves, is gone. It's just them.  
  
Just for a few minutes.  
  
"We will be beginning our descent into Moscow." The words are repeated in Russian, and then in German, and Chinese. Sherlock doesn't even bother hearing them.

 

There is an intensity to the kiss that she had not been expecting, one that takes Irene's breath away even as she gladly sinks deeper into the feel of his mouth against hers, in the way his arm around her waist holds her to him.  
  
Moscow is inevitable now. Had been since the moment they'd stepped onto the plane but it is a weight now, the inexorable pull of gravity bringing them back to earth, back to the lives of the consulting detective and the Woman, back to the need to have Moriarty's web in hand, to his return to London and Baker Street and John Watson. To her disappearance for nine months at least, perhaps a year, before she risks being on Mycroft Holmes' radar again.  
  
"I could hardly have made the scene alone," she murmurs against his mouth. She does not precisely cling to _him_ , no, but she does cling to the moment, revels in it as she had rarely allowed herself during their holiday until they had known precisely when it would end.  
  
She nips at his lip, one arm wrapping around his neck as she ignores the way the airplane's cabin pressure changes to begin landing maneuvers.  
  
"And I know you like to show off."

 

He traces a hand down her arm, twining his fingers with hers, with the hand that wears the gemstone ring. It suits her, Sherlock had said, but they both knew there was a sentimental bond they both held for it, in the same way that Sherlock felt sentimental for the phone that sat in the drawer of his home. It had transcended space and danger and lives lost and managed to find them together. How could one not find _some_ sentiment clinging there?  
  
"That's what I do," he replies. "I _am_ a show-off."

 

She laughs against his lips and pulls away just far enough to look at him when she opens her eyes. For a moment, she almost wishes she'd taken him up on his earlier offer, to go to Sydney rather than Moscow, to prolong the inevitable.  
  
Almost.  
  
No, there was too much at stake here. She _had_ to have Moriarty's network in hand before her pregnancy advanced too far, had to be settled in a number of safe houses before the Inconvenience arrived. And, as the elder Holmes' presence reminded them, he had to return to Baker Street.  
  
But there would be other holidays.  
  
"Pity I'm the only one you'd show off _those_ particular skills to," she teases, touching her forehead to his as she curls her fingers around his, the amethyst ring winking in the diffuse light.

 

"No one else would be worth my time," Sherlock responded. "But I may try my hand at flirtation for its use."  
  
So much sentiment, so much desire to _stay_.  
  
What would happen if they did? If they both ran away? They could do it, and easily. If they both just ran, ran away with the child and---and---  
  
It would be something he would not allow himself to think about. Ever. Because it would never work. They would tire of each other. He reminds himself of this, even as her fingers curl with his, and he realizes that despite their arguments, despite their petty feuds and intense battles between each other, he has yet to tire of her. But he _must_ , he tells himself. And that is why they must part.  
  
"Please fasten your lap belts." The words repeat in their languages.

 

"I'd love to see John Watson's expression when he realizes you've learned to _flirt_ for information," she says. She expects that he'd look somewhere between disgusted and ready to sick up, depending on whether he realized what Sherlock was doing.  
  
Still, despite the instructions, Irene does not move from her position, still indulging in another few moments of being intertwined, in being themselves and on holiday. The moment the plane touches down in Moscow, this bubble of self-delusion will break, and they will have to be Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes again, another step closer to returning to the Woman and the Consulting Detective, both back from the dead.  
  
However, she does nod down at them, at the way her dress is hiked high on her hips by his earlier ministrations. "I suppose I should put myself to rights," she murmurs. "We'll need every second to slip your brother's noose once we're on the ground."

 

"Yes, you should," he agrees. All the same, he leans forward one last time, pressing his mouth to hers, and hard. He can't love her, he won't love her, he won't allow himself to become tied down, and everything sentimental that has passed between them is---it simply _is_ , but it can't be and it doesn't matter. So he'll kiss her.  
  
Just once again.  
  
And like that, he pulls back, releasing her hand, and turns to fasten his lap belt.

 

There is something searing in their kisses, something irresistible and magnetic, and it is something Irene knows she will miss when they part, though she will never admit it. She kisses him back, her mouth crushed to his, wanting to bruise his lips, to mark him as thoroughly as he has marked her during their holiday.  
  
When he pulls away, she draws a long slow breath, trying to keep from shuddering, putting on the dominatrix's armour again. She rises on her knees to pull the dress back down and pauses as her fingertips brush the now-empty garter. She arches an eyebrow at him and gestures to the stiletto still resting against his chest. "So certain you want to leave me completely to my own devices?"

 

"I know no devices which suit you better," he replies. "Are you ready to be my assassin and vice?"  
  
In a way, she already is.

 

She picks up the stiletto knife, fingers lingering against his chest, and slips it back into her garter, pulling the dress hem down over it. With the dress pulled back low past her hips, Irene smirks, running a hand through her hair as she moves off Sherlock.  
  
She is herself again, giving nothing away as she picks up Mycroft's notebook and returns to her own seat next to his. She could be anyone, leafing contently through her notes, as she gives him a sidelong look.  
  
"You say that as if I wasn't already."

 

"You have your dagger to my chest in more ways than one, Woman," Sherlock says.  
  
The plane shakes as they pull in for a landing. Mycroft is long since unconscious, and Sherlock is content to seeing that he's not going to wake up any time soon. Even a shaking plane won't pull him out of the pull of his medicated state. Sadly, a ploy like that won't work again. He'll have to have other friends if he ever wants to knock Mycroft out.  
  
"We'll just have to make certain we watch for Jim's friends as you take them over, they're dangerous of the likes I know I haven't dealt with before."

 

"And ours is a game I only play with _willing_ participants," she answers, buckling herself into her seat. Her brow furrows as she flips through the notebook, its entries neatly entered, but utterly nonsensical. Cyphered, no doubt.  
  
She continues flipping through the book. There is no chance of a key at the end of it, but she looks anyway, in case something _does_ catch her attention, gives her a clue.  
  
Her voice is cold, razor sharp, as she continues, "And Jim's friends aren't a game. They'll have a knife to their throats until they behave themselves."

 

"And if they can't behave, just slice it," Sherlock says. "I had every intention of removing every strand of his web, and would have done so without any hesitation or deviation, until your arrival."  
  
That, however, is the Woman. She always shakes his most well-thought plans.  
  
"And once we part, I won't be able to help."  
  
He's rather impressed with himself. Even he might believe the conviction in his voice. Believe that he wouldn't come if she really and truly needed him. He doubts sincerely that she might, but if she _did_...

 

She turns to look at him, leveling on him the full brunt of her attention. "You of all people should know I'm perfectly capable without your help," she reminds him, though there is no heat in her voice, just a small, tart smile. "Even when you insist on offering it."  
  
She closes Mycroft's notebook then and sets it down, as the plane banks, and a quiet thud indicated it had lowered its landing gears in preparation. The smile softens to something fond, though that same tartness never leaves her voice.  
  
"I was perfectly capable in Montenegro before you, Mr. Holmes. I'll be perfectly capable elsewhere after this. And fretting doesn't suit you."

 

"I'm not fretting," he says, and he sounds genuinely surprised at the very implication.  
  
He reaches out for Mycroft's notebook.  
  
"Rotating cypher. It'll take me months to break it."

 

Her hand rests on his as he reaches for the notebook, stopping him from taking it. She arches an eyebrow at him.  
  
"Hardly sharing if I let you take it."

 

Sherlock gives her a small, challenging smirk.  
  
"You'll never break it. There is no one alive better at writing code than my brother."

 

She narrows her eyes in response. He _knows_ how she would respond to such a challenge, knows that she would know as well.  
  
The corner of her mouth tugs up in a self-satisfied smile. "Is that why you want me to keep it from you?" she asks, "So you won't have to admit to not being able to break it yourself?"

 

He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Of course I can break it," he says. "It will just take time. By that point, the information will be worthless to you."  
  
How does she do this? How does she know what he's thinking? What he's manipulating before he does it?

 

Her smile grows, working its way from that one corner of her mouth all the way across her face as he speaks, as he scoffs and dismisses her question without the weight of truth behind his words. She can almost see his mind work, see the questions he cannot answer as he tries to remain nonchalant watching her.  
  
The plane rumbles as its gears touch the tarmac, and there is a roar of noise as the thrust reversers slow the plane considerably.  
  
Moscow.  
  
She slips her fingers beneath his, catching the notebook in question between their palms. The captain announces their landing, and flight attendant Felix's voice comes over the speaker, instructing everyone to stay seated, thank you.  
  
"We can slip out when they unload the galley," she tells him, nodding back towards where the flight attendants were rising, busily preparing for the rush of deplaning passengers. "But we'll have to lose the luggage."

 

The notebook was between them, now. A floating piece of knowledge that neither of them could decipher, but neither of them would admit defeat on.  
  
He should give it back to Mycroft, he thinks. Just the knowledge that they'd thumbed through it would be enough to give his brother a heart attack.  
  
"We generally wear what we don't want to lose," Sherlock replies to her. "Don't we?"

 

She knows he means the amethyst ring that remains on her finger. The ring that had had been left to lure him to Hong Kong. The ring that had been the one thing he'd sent to Montreal from San Salvador. She wonders if he realizes it means the gold band still on his left hand, the simple heavy gold ring that had been part of them since Niagara, that has not left his hand since the guise of the overbearing politician.  
  
"It seems safest," she agrees. The notebook remains trapped between them, and with her other hand Irene undoes her lap belt, picks up Mycroft Holmes' wallet. "Fortunately, we have just the thing to replace it all with."

 

He tilts his head, clearly a little confused. He hates being a step behind her, but sometimes he truly is.  
  
"Oh, yes?" he asks.

 

Her smile grows, obviously enjoying his slight confusion. The plane slows to a stop, and despite the flight attendants' directions, as soon as the passengers feel the change in motion, they begin springing up around them.  
  
"Your brother doesn't strike me as the type to so readily relinquish cash for strictly credit cards. I expect we'll have quite the sum to resupply ourselves even before your friend sends him running to track down his extravagant purchases."

 

He smiles. "I don't think I've enjoyed shopping sprees quite so often as I have with you, Woman."  
  
He waits with her, and considers the notebook between their hands. Neither of them might be able to decipher Mycroft's code, and neither of them might be able to admit it, but there is another way to frustrate his brother even more.  
  
"May I?"

 

She would have said that she'd _always_ been able to tell when he was planning something, but that would have been less than true despite the fact that he would admit she was a better liar. But in the months of their holiday, Irene has gotten better at reading Sherlock Holmes. Not every little thought, but his tells were more obvious than they had been before their holiday.  
  
Or perhaps she simply trusts him to frustrate his brother.  
  
Either way, she smirks and eases her grip on the notebook, gesturing imperiously towards the seat where the elder Holmes had been drugged. "Be my guest."

 

It's not often that thinks something as insignificant as a moment is special. But this, this moment, it's special. It's them, the two of them, trusting each other. And her, holding onto what could easily be the most precious piece of information she's ever held in her hand, and giving it to him when asked.  
  
He opens it up, skims through a few pages, and tears a handful out, skims a few more, and tears a few more out. He tucks them away in his pocket and moves to his feet.  
  
"That'll leave him guessing as to why we only took those."  
  
He leans over the chair to his brother and reaches over to tuck his notebook back in his pocket. As he pulls back, he attempts subtlety as he moves his hand under his brother's nose. Just to check, just to confirm that he's still breathing heavily, healthily.

 

Irene rises to her own feet; the other passengers are all too eager to leave the aircraft to care about one unconscious man in his seat, or the two heading in the opposite direction, especially since their amorous behaviour had ensured that the other passengers found them far too uncomfortable to dwell on.  
  
"Letting his own imagination terrorize him," she says approvingly, tucking the purloined wallet into her garter next to the knife. "You're rather good."

 

"You're not so bad," he replies.  
  
Mycroft's alive and well, more or less, and Sherlock is ready to be away from him. He wants to linger in Moscow for as long as they can, to hold out on their holiday, but the outside world is closing in, and fast. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, tucking it between his lips as they begin to head back. He'll light it after they exit the plane, of course. No need to draw unnecessary attention to themselves. More than they already have.

 

There is another announcement, barely heard over the public announcement system, that they would be deplaning shortly, but that does not keep Irene from weaving towards the galley. As predicted, the staff is as eager to leave Moscow behind as the passengers were to leave the plane, and the rear door is already opened, allowing the removal of empty galley carts full of trash and half-eaten meals.  
  
One of the other flight attendants, not their helpful friend, attempts to stop them, and Irene reaches into Sherlock's pocket for a companion cigarette. "Just long enough for a smoke," she says conspiratorially to the other woman, whose own nicotine stained fingertips betrayed her habit. "Can barely smoke in there anymore."  
  
The woman looks at them both, her eyes lingering on Irene, and nods, gesturing them through the door and down the flight of stairs to the tarmac.

 

Sherlock doesn't bother hiding his proud smile at the Woman's words. She's always been clever. She's only become more observant as her time with him as gone on. And he, in turn, has learned more about people and they--- they---  
  
They needed to end.  
  
"Can't smoke anywhere anymore," Sherlock grumbles, his accent now Russian.

 

The rough, heavy Russian accent sits easier on his tongue than on hers, but it was a necessity, if they wanted to remain unremarked upon. An American and a Russian would have been memorable.  
  
"Nowhere but the open air," she reminds him, layering a Ukrainian/Russian patois accent into her own voice, as she takes his elbow and steers him down the mobile stairs and immediately out of the shadow of the airplane, among the bustling mass of refueling trucks and baggage handlers. "I suspect our overeager friends waiting in the airport will assume we've immediately taken a flight elsewhere."

 

"No, these are Mycroft's men," Sherlock says. "They're waiting for him. They probably suspect we're arguing. We do that often, if you didn't notice. Is that _Ukrainian?_ I'm impressed."  
  
He lights the cigarette, and grabs one of the reflective vests off of the edge of the bags. He throws it over his own jacket and slouches. He immediately becomes a worker, leading a passenger elsewhere, somewhere she needs to go, away from the plane.  
  
Blends.

 


	6. The Ties that Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Irene's escape from Mycroft Holmes is complicated by a dog that does not bark in the night, and familial ties threaten to upset their escape.

Irene has to force the smile back, the one that wants to spread across her face at his remark about the Ukrainian. She falls into step with him, her own carriage high, straight back and impetuous. She tucks the cigarette away, no longer a smoker needing a fix but the passenger being escorted and not at all pleased by her escort's habit.  
  
A luggage tow driver loops around them, but otherwise they are remarkably unremarked upon.  
  
"Russian alone is boring. I prefer a little personal touch," she answers, not bothering to hide the pleasure in her voice at his remark. "And good. They won't make a move until he's conscious again then, and we'll have disappeared into the city by then."  
  
The thought comes to mind that they could both disappear now, on their own, each into the wind. It would no doubt be safer. Her hand tightens on his arm at the thought. No, she wants Moscow, she wants this last stop on their holiday, and she will not let the British Government deny her.

 

He also thinks that they could disappear, now. He could give up London forever, she could give up the web, and they could just _go_. But they would never be free, not really. And they would never want to give up what they both have been waiting for. They want so much outside of this holiday but still---but still---  
  
Her hand is warm on his arm.  
  
He'll miss that, he thinks. That constancy of touch.  
  
It isn't a logical thing to miss, but it's true.  
  
"We'll take the car at the far end of the lane. They'll have left the key in, it's employee-use only. We'll take it two to four blocks away before we switch to on-foot to confuse the trail."

 

Her eyes are drawn immediately to the car he mentions, a small sedan at least 15 years old. A dashboard camera installed pointing outward; they'd have to be careful either to avoid it or put it to very good use. She nods, and holds her unlit cigarette between her teeth as she reaches for Mycroft's wallet still tucked into her garter.  
  
She thumbs through it, scrutinizing what she finds. There is cash there, a generous amount but nothing the two of them could not obliterate in minutes. One credit card they have already given to Felix the charming flight attendant. There are a few more, at least one in Mycroft's name, one under a pseudonym. She pauses as her fingers fall on a small stack of identification cards, each promising access to an institution of utter security.   
  
Irene smiles around the unlit cigarette, and she holds the wallet's contents out for him to see. "He'll have entrance privileges revoked from these as soon as he realizes what's happened," she says. "But it's certainly interesting to know what he has access to, don't you think?"

 

"And whatever you find will give you twenty minutes access before he sends in someone to extract you," he says. "He won't run the risk of arresting me."

 

She smirks as they approach the car in question. "Noted. Still, it's very tempting to suggest in some future time that you pick his pockets for me."

 

"Very tricky," Sherlock replies. "I'll be forced to ask a favor in return." Mycroft's pockets were never easy to pick. The man may have had a streak of laziness a mile wide through him when it came to doing anything physical, but he was adept when it came to everything on his person, including all of his cards. That wasn't to say it was _impossible_ of course. He'd done it before, and would certainly do it again.  
  
But do it for the Woman? Well, he'd have to charge _some_ sort of a fee.  
  
He heads to the driver's side. While they might have a very easygoing push-pull about who drives the vehicles in their various situations, this is one where the passenger should be the--well, passenger.

 

She heads for the passenger seat without argument or protest; their current guise required her to accept the passenger's seat, after all, but it does not stop Irene from shooting him a Look over the hood of the car before she seats herself. A Look that made it clear she was well aware that their condition did not allow her to argue, but that did not mean she was pleased by it.  
  
"Reciprocity, is it? I'd be interested to see what you think picking the British Government's pocket would be worth," she answers, closing the passenger side door behind her.

 

"I'd be interested in what you'd be willing to pay," Sherlock replies, tossing her the slightest of smirks. He must, after all, remain in character for the next few minutes, at least.  
  
He starts the car and pulls it back, heading towards the nearest exit. No sign of armored cars. No sign of sharp, black suits. No sign of anyone related to Mycroft. This is unbelievably easy.  
  
 _Too_ easy.  
  
Sherlock tenses immediately.

 

Her light, teasing rejoinder dies on her lips when he tenses. It is almost as if the temperature in the car has dropped, a second before she sees the way his fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He tenses and her own reaction is immediate, her jaw sets and her gaze sweeps what she can see from her own side of the car.   
  
"Security is lax, even for Moscow," she remarks. "Almost as if someone has taken great pains to ensure the Russian government isn't here."

 

"Mycroft wouldn't do that," Sherlock says. "He likes things to be _painfully_ normal when he's taking advantage of a situation. He knows how the world works well enough to make certain it doesn't bother him."  
  
A direct quote from Mycroft, though he imagines she knows that.  
  
"Someone else is here."  
  
Sherlock looks in the direction of the exit. So easy. So close.  
  
"We have to go back for him."

 

She looks at him, twin expressions of disbelief and growing anger creeping across her face. "So he can find us again?" she demands. "I refuse to have him dog us the rest of ou--"   
  
She catches herself before she completes the thought. _Our holiday_.  
  
Her next words are precise, brittle in its cool, emotionless precision. "You do know that the longer we spend in his presence the less likely we'll be able to keep any secrets from him."

 

Sherlock lets an annoyed breath out of his nose.  
  
"Yes, and if he dies here, my parents will never forgive me."  
  
He puts the car back in drive and guns it forward, towards the plane.

 

She sighs in frustration and twists her body in her seat, scanning the tarmac as Sherlock sends the car back towards the airplane. "I doubt he'd be much more grateful at your attempts to protect him than you are of his," she says pointedly.  
  
Something catches her eye, and Irene reaches out her hand to rest on Sherlock's. "Man to your left. Standing by the luggage carts. No uniform but he stands like a soldier, and those are military issued boots, relatively new, I'd say a few months at most."

 

"Are you certain?" Sherlock says, eyes still on the plane. "Woman, I need you to be _certain_."

 

"Of course I'm certain," she snaps. Now that she'd seen one, the others became obvious. The mechanic circling the refuel truck, the _only_ mechanic circling it. The others stood back a ways, radios on their hips, this one with a wire to his ear. Also military, judging by both his bearing and his boots. Also the way his trousers sagged, a weapon at his hip.  
  
"Three. At the luggage cart, the fuel truck, and the woman directing traffic. She's signalling the other two with her baton. They're hovering, waiting until the plane's passengers have disembarked."

 

He trusts her, he tells himself. He trusts her, so he'll do this. One shot. Well made-Russian vehicle. Three people.   
  
He turns the car and presses his foot on the gas. He can do this in one pass.  
  
"Hold on."  
  
He has to get in, get Mycroft, and _leave_. Preferably before Mycroft wakes up and they have to deal with him again.

 

Irene's grip tightens on the arm rest on the door, and she double-checks that her seat belt is latched.  
  
"The dashboard camera will record anything that happens in front of us," she warns him.

 

"They're about to get quite the show."  
  
He guns it, and the car hits the first man the Woman indicated, tumbling him over the edge of the car. Sherlock spins the car around, and slams the side of it into the woman. There's a large crunching noise, and the wheel of the car spins out, leading Sherlock to believe she's probably underneath the tire somewhere. Unpleasant, but not unexpected. One more, then to the plane.  
  
"I'm not going to actually have to apologize for the behavior of my brother to you, am I? That seems...ordinary."

 

She winces as the woman goes under the tire, not from any well developed empathy for the woman, but simply because the way she hit jostled the car, and Irene felt the seat belt dig into her shoulder as it did.  
  
The last man, the one with the ear wire lingering below the wing, whirls in surprise, but he is caught up in the chaos of the rest of the workers, suddenly panicked about the car that has run over two of them.   
  
"You should know by now that I prefer getting even to an apology, Mr. Holmes," she answers. "In this case, I expect to exact quite a reparation from the British Government for upsetting my holiday."

 

"We'll leave him somewhere cold and unpleasant," Sherlock replies. "I hold my brother in no regard whatsoever, but I can't just----"  
  
He gestures towards the worker he is heading towards, grimacing as the car makes an unpleasant noise as he hits it.  
  
"I imagine that's our air conditioning going out."

 

"As long as the engine runs."  
  
She frowns, considers the route back up to the plane, then the way out of the airport again. The lack of security now was an advantage, but not one for long. Her mind races with plans, contingencies, possibilities.  
  
"A minute to get up and down the stairs the way we came. An extra thirty seconds on the way down, taking into account your brother's extra bulk. Can you get him in a minute? I doubt we'll have more than five before the authorities show. Less, if the others try to keep us here."

 

"How's your Russian?" Sherlock asks, spinning the car to a halt near the stairwell. "Because I suggest you inform them you have a bomb and are ready to use it if they attempt to keep us here."  
  
He throws open the door and bursts out, racing up the stairs.

 

Her Russian is only passable, obviously foreign, but the Ukrainian accent she layers on the Russian makes her less-than-fluid Russian acceptable, understandable. A Ukrainian foreigner, a terrorist, no doubt.  
  
He sprints out of the car and Irene scrambles out of her own side. She opens the passenger door as well, the better to throw Mycroft Holmes into the back like so much unwanted luggage, and makes it to the driver's side, pulling the folded stiletto from its hiding place on her thigh. Most of it hidden in her hand, she merely had to brandish its bright metal hilt with her thumb hovering over it to convince some fear-drunk idiot that it was a detonator.  
  
" _Stay back_ ," she warns, mentally counting down the seconds. " _Unless you all wish to not make it home tonight._ "

 


	7. Two Minds in Concert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mission: To retrieve an unconscious Mycroft Holmes from whatever mysterious entity is trying to take advantage of the situation. The key: To do so and be gone before the elder Holmes regains his consciousness and realize just what Sherlock and Irene are hiding from him.

Sherlock bounded inside, nearly tripping over a body in the hallway. Felix, crumpled to the ground, his neck bent in an obviously unnatural manner. Sherlock felt something odd twinge in his stomach at the sight of the man who was not quite a friend dead before him. If he'd turned back just a little sooner...  
  
Mycroft.  
  
His brother was being carried by two men, one holding his shoulders, the other his feet, towards the front of the plane. Sherlock went for a knife from the bread tray near Felix and raced forward, hoping surprise would catch the men before instinct did. He raced up, gripping the man's chin up, and slid the knife over throat. Mycroft's shoulders were dropped instantly, and Sherlock's brother's head made a rather wonderful thudding noise against the floor of the plane. The other man, the one dropping Mycroft's feet and going for his gun, would be more difficult.

 

A minute ticked by in Irene's mental count, and while the other maintenance workers around the airplane kept their distance, Irene could not help listening for the rattle of feet on the the metal staircase, the grunt of effort that would indicate Sherlock's return.  
  
Another thirty seconds, and one of the baggage handlers (this one wearing sneakers, not military issue boots) took a hesitant step forward. " _No no stand back, boy,_ " she tsked, gesturing him back and brandishing the false detonator. " _I've got enough in this car to keep your sister finding pieces for weeks._ "  
  
Another thirty seconds ticked by in her mental count.

 

Sherlock takes a solid punch to the jaw, and then a kick to the side, right where the knife went in back in Montenegro. It shouldn't hurt, but it still _aches_ , and that kick did it no good. He throws another punch, and reaches blindly for the gun on the floor near Mycroft's useless head. How long was the Woman out there? She could keep them still, but for how long? And how---  
  
A kick to the gut, and Sherlock grunts in pain. He reaches up, turning his thumbs in towards the man's eyes.  
  
She just had to give him another minute.

 

A knot of tension begins to build between her shoulder blades as the seconds tick by, and the standoff continues with no real threat from Irene and no real direction from any authority.   
  
" _They'd let you get blown to pieces, you know,_ " she says conversationally as she nods towards the airplane. " _Rather you get blown to pieces than have to keep you safe. Money and all. They don't tell you what's in there, do they? The cargo. Don't tell you what's in there and when their goods are damaged they dock your pay for it._ " Several of the workers, the baggage handlers, grumble in grudging agreement, and Irene continues, nodding at the cargo hold again, its door still gaping open, cargo still within.  
  
" _They'd hardly miss it, you know. Whatever is in there. Goods, electronics, maybe they're shipping gold for some tycoon. It'd hardly be missed and you can blame the terrorists. A nice little bonus for a night's work. Or a week, don't you think?_ "  
  
Irene breathes a little easier when several of the workers begin eyeing the cargo compartment, and one takes a grudging step towards it. The fewer individuals paying attention to her, the better.  
  
Forty seconds.

 

Sherlock is finally on his feet again, but this time he has the man behind him, arm around his neck. He feels his air blocked off completely, and the sense of panic that he's long since attempted to control creeping in. He can't breathe. He's struggling, and he can't breathe, and he can't break free of the hold on his neck. He can't break free, he can't---he can't---  
  
He suddenly thinks of something very silly. Something that happened with Mycroft when they were young. Mycroft was showing Sherlock how to fight against larger bullies at school. It became an unnecessary lesson, of course, as Mycroft threatened and bribed the bullies to leave him alone, but there was a technique, something idiotic that Sherlock had done that wasn't part of the lesson that had gotten his much larger brother off of him. He fell forward, and let his brother roll off his back. Mycroft was immensely annoyed, and Sherlock was instantly pleased, but never got to use that new-found bit of knowledge.  
  
Well, until now.  
  
Sherlock twists himself up and bends forward. The gravity of the man holding onto his neck is too much and he falls forward, rolling over Sherlock's back and onto the ground, giving Sherlock the upper hand. He throws his foot into his throat, and runs to the gun.

 

Fear and uncertainty made the people standing around her easier to manipulate, but Irene found herself painfully aware of how fragile that thread was, how quickly it could all fall to pieces if one of them neared.

Her gaze strays up at the staircase again, at the square of light spilling out of the airplane, and the urge to race up the stairs grows, to follow and discover exactly what the delay was. But to step away from the car would be dangerous, would allow the still hesitant maintenance personnel to approach the car, to discover their bluff. And if she ans Sherlock were to have Mycroft Holmes in tow, they would need the vehicle.

" _You know that's what customs does_ ," she continues casually as she takes a step back from the driver's seat, notices the dark shape of the last man, the refueler, just behind the rear wheel of the car. He must have caught under the wheel, at least for a bit. " _Take a little off the top of what they find to keep themselves comfortable._ "

The man was bloody from the impact, but it isn't his body or his broken bones that interests Irene. She quickly leans down to relieve him of the weapon at his waist, and after a second's hesitation she rips the receiver from his ear as well, the small transmitter tucked into his pocket. The gun he'd carried is large, comparable in size to a Desert Eagle, and dwarfs Irene's hands. Still, she holds it with confidence, clicking off the safety with one thumb.

 

With the handgun in her hand, she gestures to the luggage handlers. " _Since you refuse to oblige me by indulging in your own greed, let's make it a little less self-serving,_ " she says. " _Let's indulge in some petty threats. Into the cargo holds, and bring out everything you can find, or I start shooting._ "

 

 _Bang_. Sherlock fires one shot cleanly through the man's head, downing him instantly. He kneels next to his brother.  
  
"Mycroft?" he inquires. "Mycroft!"  
  
He checks pulse, breathing. Mycroft's alive, just still very sedated. This isn't going to be fun. He lifts the elder Holmes over his shoulder, dragging his expensive shoes along the ground behind them, putting the bulk of Mycroft's weight across Sherlock's back.  
  
"I hope you wake up with a wicked hangover, brother mine," he grumbles as he gets to the door of the plane.

 

The sound of a gunshot so soon after Irene's threat sends the workers scattering, and in that same instant Irene darts for the stairs up, making it halfway up the rattling metal steps before a slumped form-- no a pair of forms, one slumped the other standing-- darken the doorway. Breath leaves her in a relieved rush and Irene lowers the gun.   
  
"Decided to take your time, Mr. Holmes?" she asks tartly over her shoulder, taking the stairs back down in quick succession and making for the driver's seat.

 

"You know," he says, voice as casual as he can manage while carrying Mycroft's heavy form. "Nostalgia. Taking in our last plane ride on this holiday one last time."  
  
Shame it had to be spoiled by Mycroft. Mycroft and whatever the hell this all was.  
  
"Excellent, you've terrified them all. That's exactly how I was hoping they'd be."

 

"Hardly difficult. At least half of them expected to be next under the wheel, after your driving," she answers, swinging into the driver's seat and closing the door. She nods to the open rear passenger door.  
  
"I'd suggest shoving him into the boot but I doubt you'd offer me such a temptation after going through all that trouble to save him."

 

"You get to select where we dispose of him," he replies, heading to the passenger side without complaint, and struggling to shove Mycroft into the back. Mycroft lands in an undignified heap with his backside in the air, still rather unconscious from the xanax.  
  
"Oh, for god's sake," he grumbles. "Just get in there, Mycroft."  
  
He slams up the front seat and gets in, waiting for the Woman to take over.

 


	8. Things Better Left Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the problem of Mycroft Holmes resolved, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes find themselves facing their original plans for Moscow. But with their goodbyes imminent, with their holiday nearing its conclusion, will their facades slip, or are they too much themselves to admit to their own hearts and minds?

Irene does not wait for Sherlock to have shut his own door before she throws the car into drive and speeds out of the airport. For a long moment she does not answer, does not speak, letting the sound of Mycroft's heavy, steady breathing, aided by the Xanax, reassure her that he was indeed still asleep.  
  
Construction dots Moscow, from simple infrastructure projects to large hotels being erected, to the construction of a large stadium on the horizon. The sight causes an idea to spring to mind, and a smile plays at the corner of Irene's mouth as she drives, heading closer to the city, to denser populations where they would be able to slip away.  
  
"That would depend on whether you'll feel the urge to save him from my tender mercies," she finally says, giving him a sidelong glance. "I'm hardly in the mood to be kind for his interruption."

 

"I don't want his dignity spared, Woman," he replies, glancing back at his sleeping brother. "I just want him alive. And I don't want him to ever know that I said that, _ever_. We'll just let him assume that getting him off the plane was part of the plan the whole time. He'll be even more vastly annoyed."  
  
He glances in the Woman's direction, but no indication as to where her 'tender mercies' lie shows itself to him. Nor does anything else about her, as per usual.  
  
"I would say you'd understand, but---you don't have siblings, I assume."

 

She chuckles and gives him another sidelong glance. "Don't I?" she asks, all false innocence and absolutely no qualms about its obvious falsehood. "Surely the British Government unearthed all of my secrets for you. The eight illegitimate brothers and sisters? The overbearing mother?"  
  
All a lie, of course. She takes an exit from the main road, towards a stadium, according to a temporary sign across the road. "None," she finally confirms. She does not talk about who she was before she was Irene Adler, preferring to come into the world fully formed from the head of Zeus himself. "Was it my inability to play well with others that gave it away?"

 

He smiles at the confirmation, and offers his own in response. "I was guessing."  
  
A lot of his deductions for the Woman are based on guesses. That is part of what makes her different. What makes her _special_. She is not an open book, he can't read a lifetime on her eyelashes or tell her childhood from her fingernails. She holds it all deeper, in places he can't see. Perhaps, even now, he doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want her to become ordinary; he likes her on her pedestal.  
  
"You hold no fear for their lives---siblings or parents, that is----no intention of bringing them into..." He smirks. " _The fetus_ 's life."

 

"I thought you might have been."  
  
She continues driving for a long moment, lapsing into silence at his mention of the Inconvenience growing inside her. She likes her secrets, she enjoys keeping them, because secrets are currency, because secrets that were known were ordinary, and a past that was known would lose some of the dominatrix's power, some of her untouchability.  
  
She did, after all, liked to be in control.  
  
She shrugs, finally, when the road narrows, grows rougher with the pockmarks of heavy machinery. "You're assuming I have parents at all," she retorts. "For all your guesses, I could be Galatea or Athena, brought into the world fully formed and breathing scandal."

 

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. "Are those two people I'm supposed to know about?"

 

Her laugh is fond and genuine as she pulls the car into a seemingly empty construction lot, the half-built football stadium looming like some skeletal titan.  
  
"No, I doubt any criminals you encounter would use mythology metaphors." A pause, and her voice grows teasing. "Though now I suspect I should start, to prevent my plans from being discovered."

 

"I imagine you're only saying that so I'll begin studying mythology in order to subvert you, and waste my hard-drive space on nonsense," Sherlock says. "I do keep the Judeo-Christian bible on hand for some criminal mythology."  
  
He looks around the construction area she pulls into. How far away is it from any sort of human activity? Just far enough, he imagines. He glances back at his sleeping brother.  
  
"Here?" he inquires.

 

"Or I'm simply saying it so you would waste hard-drive space on nonsense rather than anything that could get in my way," she retorts. And with her, it _could_ be either.

Irene slows the car as she sees an area of the skeletal stadium structure currently in heavy shadow but that would be in bright sunlight in a few hours time, and guides the car to it. She gestures to the half built scaffolding and iron girders.

"There. Out of sight, out of harm's way. Without his suit coat and with some more manhandling he'll look like any other vagrant when he comes to." She pats her thigh, where Mycroft's wallet remained tucked in her garter, against the healing wound from San Salvador. "Especially without any official identification."

 

He glances in the car. Scraping along the ignition, the shaky burn marks of cigarettes held too long without ashing them. The gear shift that slipped. Sherlock reaches under the passenger's seat and procures a half-empty bottle of liquor.  
  
"Throw a few splashes of this on him, as well. For authenticity."

 

She looks at the half-empty bottle of vodka and smirks with approval. "Clever."  
  
Throwing the car into park, Irene throws open the driver's side door and pulls herself out of the vehicle. "You were the one doing the shooting, obviously," she says, scrutinizing him as she rounded the car to the passenger's side.  
  
It is not a question.

 

Sherlock hops out as well, moving to the back seat to get his brother from where he continues to sleep.  
  
"Two men, clearly there to collect the British government. Killed anyone in their way." He glances briefly over to the Woman, as if to indicate their acquaintance had met his end this way.  
  
"Once you have control of this area of Jim's web, you can always find out who our intruders were," he says, pulling Mycroft from the back seat. "Retribution, if you'd like."

 

She isn't _sad_ precisely, to realize what he'd meant, that the delightful flight attendant Sherlock had seduced was dead. The man meant little to her but the fact that he had been seduced by Sherlock Holmes with the skills he'd learned from her... well it made the cheerfully flamboyant young man special, in some small way.  
  
"It'll be difficult to ensure they realize the message isn't for attempting to kidnap the British Government," she says, eyeing the unconscious form with no small distaste. She takes the half-empty bottle of vodka from Sherlock, and steps back enough to ensure she is not in the way of any ungainly flopping from Mycroft. "But an interesting challenge."

 

"Something I'm certain you'll enjoy," he replies.  
  
He drags Mycroft to a corner, tucking him up away from prying eyes, and pulls off his tie, then his coat and waistcoat. He begins to pick a few holes in the coat before draping it over his brother as a blanket.  
  
He makes certain to replace the notebook in Mycroft's pocket, though. Just so he notices that there are pages missing.  
  
"He'll be furious when he wakes. I doubt he'll ever think you'd do anything as retribution for him again."

 

"Good. Then he won't see it coming," she retorts, opening the bottle of vodka. The scent of alcohol makes Irene wrinkle her nose, and she pours the contents of the bottle liberally over Mycroft's form, careful to both soak his clothes and splash some on his face.  
  
She drops the now-empty bottle next to Mycroft and dusts off her hands as she gives Sherlock a sidelong look. "I don't take lightly to having my affairs interrupted by uninvited guests."

 

Sherlock gives his brother's form a sharp nod before looking back to the Woman.  
  
"Dinner?"

 

"Already?" she says, stepping close to him.  
  
"Aren't we insatiable, Mr. Holmes."

 

He lowers his hands to her hips and gives a gentle pull to move her closer.  
  
The last stop on their holiday. They've wasted too much of it already.  
  
"Well, I---"  
  
There's a slight groan behind him. Mycroft is starting to wake up. Sherlock lets out a loud sigh.  
  
"We should leave."

 

"Another black mark on his list of sins," Irene sighs as well as she rounds the car to the driver's side again. She is already considering what hotels would be the most pleasant for this last lingering stop in their holiday, which she fully intends to take advantage of before their rendezvous with the member of Moriarty's web marked for death, and afterwards.  
  
She starts the car again, and considers the hotel where Sherlock had sent his map of Moriarty's web again.  
  
"The Baltschug Kempinski? Or someplace less obvious?"

 

Sherlock watches the place where his brother is waking up in the rear view mirror. Part of him would really like to see Mycroft's confused face, but part of him wants Mycroft to remain in London, where he belongs. He's part of _that_ life, the one he's going back to. The Woman is part of _this_ life, and he wants to say goodbye to it properly before he goes.  
  
"You decide," he says. "I'm finished making decisions for our holiday today."

 

A small knowing smile forms on her lips, as if his answer has given her some secret, some small thing that has illuminated some part of Sherlock Holmes. "Putting your fate in my hands," she purrs over the engine as she peels out of the construction area.  
  
"How very daring of you, Mr. Holmes."  
  
She's made up her mind, of course. The Baltschug Kempinski will not be their stop, not yet. That will wait until after she's allowed him to snip away one last strand of Moriarty's web. She will leave him there.  
  
But not now. Not yet.  
  
Now she heads towards the Bolshoi, and the elegant hotels around it.

 

"Ordinary people like to live safely," he replies. "Not you or I."  
  
After all, they were the sort to copulate in a moving vehicle, or start fights in order to acquire new information, or break into high-class hotels simply for fun. No, they didn't live safe lives. They would be far too _dull_.  
  
And the Woman was anything but dull.

 

"Not while on holiday, at least."  
  
She makes it back onto the main road quickly, putting as much distance between them and Mycroft Holmes as possible, as much distance as much time between them and the life that they will both soon have to return to.  
  
But the car is visible with its new dents, is no doubt obvious and recognizable as the car that'd mowed down three people in the airport, if anyone were to report the incident. Irene considers their options, and takes another exit, weaving into the edges of the city, keeping an eye out for waiting taxis, or an unwatched parking lot.  
  
"Perhaps I should have accepted the offer of Sydney."

 

"And ended the holiday earlier?" he replies. "An easy escape."  
  
Why is she saying this? He wasn't expecting it, and he doesn't understand. He hates not understanding things, he hates not knowing where they're going with a conversation. He perpetually sits on a see-saw of uncertainty with the Woman, and this is just another example of that.

 

"Would it have been?" she counters. "You suggested Sydney yesterday. Perth. Bangkok. São Paulo. Rather than this."  
  
She shakes her head, and pulls the car into a shadowed alley, killing the engine. "Hardly matters."

 

He reaches out to take her hand, to catch her wrist with his fingertips.  
  
He's ready for Moscow, now. He's ready to say goodbye, to end the journey. To finish this. He can't take it if they go somewhere else, he isn't ready for more of her, more of this holiday. He's wrapped too much in being ready for it to be over, he just _can't_ , and he doesn't think she understands that.  
  
His voice still speaks for him. "Let's go. Now, to the airport."

 

Her pulse betrays her.  
  
She thinks her pulse will always betray her with him. There is no hiding the way her pulse races in surprise in response to his words, no hiding the way she starts in surprise.  
  
Still, she collects herself, tries to breathe steadily as she leans over the console between them to press a kiss to his lips. She thinks she can taste his words like stale cigarette smoke on his lips, bitter and illusory on her tongue.  
  
"Addictions are better in small doses, Mr. Holmes," she murmurs against his mouth. She can feel her own regret in her words despite her best attempts to keep herself emotionless, reserved, removed. Her fingertips trace along his jaw, small deliberate touches like the touch of his fingertips against her wrist.  
  
"Better to walk away from them before we get bored of each other, as you keep reminding me."

 

Yes, absolutely. She's completely right. He should tell her how completely right she is. Because she _is_ right and he knows it. Every part of him wants to admit to this, because this is what he's prepared for. His whole brain, his whole self is ready for her to go. He needs her to go after this one last job because this is what he's ready for. He needs London, needs its pulse back under his fingertips far more than the Woman's.  
  
"I've always been one to prefer a good, long-term binge, myself," he replies, her lips still against his. "Small doses are for beginners."

 

She smiles against his mouth, still lingering, indulging, her fingers running along his jaw. "I think you're just being contrary," she tells him, kissing him again.  
  
She wants to linger, wants to stay, to go to the airport with him now, but that was sentiment again, dangerous and deadly. To leave now meant being dogged by the British Government again, would mean making things difficult, the longer they were together, the more obvious her pregnancy became.  
  
She won't love him. She _won't_.  
  
She pulls away, just far enough that she could take a steadying breath this isn't full of _him_. "Or are you simply trying to make me admit I'll miss this?"

 

"You don't have to," he says. He could lean forward, could invade her space, could push and push and perhaps she would relent. But he's prepared, he tells himself. He's prepared for it to be over, now. He should be comfortable with it being over now.  
  
"Any more than I do," he adds. He leans back, releasing her wrist and reaching for the door. He needs to step away from the sentiment, needs to remind himself of what he doesn't want. And he doesn't want to be tied to the Woman forever. She doesn't want to be tied to him. They have their own goals. Their own parts of the world to be in. He needs to remember that.

 

He moves away, reaching for the door, and she does the same, getting out of the small intimate space, stepping out into the brisk Moscow air. The alley is still, protected, but it is still a space infinitely greater than the bubble of sentiment that had threatened to engulf them in the car.  
  
She closes the door, and carelessly pitches the car's keys into the shadows of the alley, listening to them clatter before she headed for the street. She expects him to follow, knows he will as she looks for the distinctive lines of the Bolshoi Theatre ahead, the gleaming white hotel nearby, the Aurora.  
  
He is right, of course, that she does not have to say that she'll miss this, any more than he does. It's painfully obvious, the way he's worked himself under her skin, the way even now his presence _lingers_ like cigarette smoke, like the memory of a fine fur against her skin.  
  
She should hate him for it, she thinks. She should hate him for having unmade so much of her, and worked himself so far under her skin, but she can't. Won't.  
  
She likes what they do to each other far too much.

 


	9. Obfuscating Motivations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One misadventure left in Moscow, then Irene Adler will disappear to take her place on what had once been Moriarty's throne and Sherlock Holmes will return to Baker Street, to the life of the Consulting Detective. The last time they parted in Pakistan, it had been enough for Sherlock to know that the Woman remained somewhere in the world. But with the new knowledge of the Inconvenience she now carries, Sherlock finds that the simple knowledge that there exists somewhere in the world a Woman and an Inconvenience to be less than satisfying...

"Our mark isn't the type of man to conduct his business during the day," Irene says as she walks, the afternoon breeze tugging at her hair. "Neither are our disguises."

 

Sherlock pulls out two cigarettes and offers her one.  
  
"No, he isn't, and neither are we. And we have shopping to do, if you remember."  
  
He lights his cigarette and takes a long drag. His disguise would smoke, too, he thinks. But a different brand. Something more expensive, and boring. Cigars, perhaps.

 

She takes the cigarette, but rather than immediately lighting it, she spins it between her fingers, the motion idle as she makes a face at his comment. As if she'd _forget_.  
  
"Indeed. Your man will need something ostentatious. The type to wear his wealth on display." Her lips twitch in a small smile. "The question is whether he has a sense of style, or is the type to be bullied into something by a sales clerk eager for a large commission."

 

"Persuaded by a pretty face, not bullied," Sherlock says. "He has his vices, remember? But he's cold hearted enough to hire someone like you."  
  
He looks at the cigarette, and then offers her back the pack, to replace it.  
  
"I usually delete the cigarette warning labels," he says. "Low birth weight. Is that something to worry about?"

 

A laugh. "Persuaded then," she allows.  
  
She looks from the cigarette between her fingers to the pack he offers, and a look of irritation passes her face before she replaces it in the pack. She had had no plans to smoke said cigarette, but the reminder of the Inconvenience, the reminder that she _can't_ (or at the very least shouldn't) makes her want to.   
  
"I doubt a few days of exposure will be of any more concern than than one glass of champagne on the flight," she says. She smirks then, and continues, "Another reason to part ways soon, Mr. Holmes. You'll have had to quit again if you stay."

 

"I'll have to quit when I return to London," he reminds her. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in such a dense city."  
  
The density is something he misses, though. The density of the people, of the crimes and the activity. He wants to tell her that she can't replace London. She will never be greater than his love of the city, than his love of the life he's left behind.  
  
He can't force the words from his throat.  
  
"Did you want to be a mother?" he finds himself asking.

 

Her fingers itch for the cigarette again, for something to do, to consider rather than the question he asks.   
  
"Why would I ever want to be something I've never had?" she asks in return.

 

"I have had a father," he replies. "And a mother, and I've never considered procreating."  
  
He can't tell if she's lying. It's the frustrating and wonderful thing about her. He decides to simply take her words at truth and watch for inconsistencies.

 

"Nobody considers procreation a man's _raison d'être_ ," she reminds him lightly. The streets are not crowded, but they are busy, and Irene weaves around a young man with his eyes riveted on his mobile screen.   
  
Her lips quirked. "But then procreation required something more than a professional interest in men. My energies were better spent misbehaving."

 

"Hardly," Sherlock says. "The amount of scientific advancement, Woman, you could have a child from any gene pool you'd desire."  
  
His own interest in both the opposite sex and his own sex was at nil, apart from the Woman. But she was more than just an attraction, even he had to admit that. He couldn't convince himself that she wasn't, not anymore. Not after admitting that he was on the losing side of this battle.  
  
He takes a long drag of his cigarette. "Is that women's reason for being? Childbearing? Seems idiotic. Plenty of women aren't good mothers." He gestures to himself. "Mine, for example."

 

"I managed to pick the most interesting part of the gene pool even without scientific advancement."  
  
She trails a finger along a lamppost heavily plastered with flyers as she considers her words. She's given away too much of herself already, but he offers snippets of his own and she hates for the balance between them to be tipped, even if it were in her favour.  
  
"Some old fashioned families certainly seem to think so," she finally says. "Though I suppose my father's relations were simply hoping to instill in me a regard for properly ensuring an heir to the family name that he disdained."

 

"Not Adler," he says. "Not old-fashioned enough." The family name, the history, is far more important than her clearly boring father. Wanting something as obvious as an heir, a male progeny that wouldn't be as interesting as his mother. Obviousness was something that the Woman lacked in, and he imagined that her father despised that.  
  
After all they've been through, he imagines these are the same sort of first-date conversation that John has with his girlfriends. What's your family like? Where did you grow up?  
  
How backwards they were, he and the Woman. How wonderful.  
  
"You're not going to take the new heir to claim back your old home, are you?" he asks.

 

"And let you know exactly where that old home is? Not on your life," she informs him firmly.  
  
The busybody vultures that watched her father's string of paramours, of beautiful, mostly penniless women with noble pedigrees were all dead by now, and the family home kept in some semblance of repair by enough wealth and history that it was a self-propagating, self-sustaining thing. She far preferred blazing her own way, misbehaving and dancing a trail of ruin behind her.  
  
"We both know exactly what I plan to do after this, Mr. Holmes. Why pretend otherwise?"

 

Sherlock pauses, turning and looking at the Woman. Smoke circles his vision around her as he considers what he knows, what she's said. If, of course, she's telling the truth, which is always suspect with her.  
  
"In London," he says. "After I turned your phone into Mycroft. You could have used your family's money and esteem to vanish. You could have saved yourself the pain of possible death by going back there. But you chose not to. You ended up nearly beheaded in Karachi rather than seek out your father's help."

 

He pauses and she continues for three more steps before his words cause her to stop, before she turns on her heel to study him as he considers her, a certain terseness in her jaw as she rolls the answering words around on her tongue.  
  
"You refused to let your brother know you were alive when you were bleeding from a bullet wound in London," she reminds him. "Is that so different?"

 

"If it had only been me, I might have," Sherlock says. "The need to survive trumps most pride. Not all, but most."  
  
Pride. The Woman was proud, but this, he believed, was more than that.  
  
"That's not to say I don't have legitimate reason to hate Mycroft, I _do_. But you---this is more than just blazing your own way, Woman. You must _hate_ your father."

 

She watches him, lets his deduction linger between them, and instead of responding, turns on her heel again and continues walking down the street. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, and answers, not waiting to see if he'd follow, knowing he _would_ because it was the only way to get the answer.  
  
"Hatred is a wonderful motivator, Mr. Holmes," she reminds him. "After all, I'm motivated in making life as difficult as humanly possible for your brother for getting in my way." She weaves her way around a businesswoman, clicking along the street in ill-fitting heels. "And you of all people know I'm vicious. If I hated my father, why wouldn't I have simply had him killed or incapacitated and taken on his money and esteem for my own? Rich men in their dotage are often being taken care of by long-suffering family, most of whom are relieved when they not-so-suddenly die."

 

"Bitter, then," Sherlock says. He doesn't follow her, just stays where he began deducing, watching her walk, taking in the way she moves, the way she steps. Trying to read something out of the unreadable that was the Woman.  
  
"Bitterness is a paralytic. And you're paralyzed when it comes to seeking revenge. Or, perhaps you hope one day you'll stop hating him."  
  
He looks back at the car. "Or, like Mycroft and I, you've just become so accustomed to hatred it's almost like an old friend."

 

She frowns, irritation twisting her lips as he calls back his deduction from where he stands. She stops then, does not come back towards him, letting the distance between them stay exactly as it is. It is, perhaps, absurd to be having this discussion several arm lengths away, but she is stubborn, and so is he.  
  
"Why the curiosity?" she demands. "Suddenly trying to gauge whether the Inconvenience would be better suited raised however poorly by your own mother or your brother?"

 

"No," he replies quickly, shaking his head. "No, absolutely not. Neither of them will even know he exists, and you know that."  
  
But---  
  
He gestures to her.  
  
"I know nothing about you, Woman."  
  
A big admission, from the man who knows everything, from the man who can read anyone and any place. He still knows nothing about her, he can still read nothing on her. Even now. Her past is still a mystery to him. She is still the deepest mystery he has.

 

She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, watches him with absolutely no expression on her face. It should not astonish her that he sees so much and yet misses the most obvious things. But perhaps it shouldn't surprise her. And the distance between them only illustrates how true that is.  
  
"You're a terrible liar, Mr. Holmes," she finally says, letting her arms fall to her side as she takes a step towards him. A single step, but it feels like losing to take it. "Or you would be, if I thought you were lying."  
  
Another step, and she stops again. "You know nothing about my _past_. A jumble of names and places and lawyers that are absolutely irrelevant. Useless. You know precisely who I am now, and what I want, and what I will defy governments to keep." Her lips quirk into a wry smile. "And what I like, which is more than anyone else could claim. Is that really nothing?"

 

"I only know what I've _guessed_ ," he corrects. "Or what you've told me, and neither of those as sources are credible. We both know that."  
  
He takes another drag of the cigarette. It tastes bitter in his mouth, the pleasure in it gone. "But that is how you've always been, Woman. And my life has never been anything but an open book, it's never _had_ to be anything but."  
  
He tosses the cigarette aside, and it falls into the street in a small shower of red embers. "In that way, you will always have the advantage over me."

 

The wry smile becomes a smirk, and she arches an eyebrow at him, a significantly more familiar expression than the moment before's uneasy truth.   
  
"Of course. I know what you like. The pressing case, the mystery that's never solved."

 

"And you'll never share it with anyone?"  
  
That doesn't seem right to Sherlock. John always wanted to share something with someone, even if it was Sherlock or his drunken sister. There was the need to share, the need to give up ghosts or skeletons in the closet. Sherlock often shared things with Mycroft simply because he thought this was what one did. It wasn't until he was older that he realized he didn't need to. He didn't want to.  
  
Of course, he also worried that there was something wrong with himself. Regularly.

 

She tilts her head, a small frown furrowing her brow, at his question. There were so many things about Sherlock Holmes that were obvious, and yet so many that were a mystery.   
  
The thought briefly crosses her mind that perhaps the Inconvenience will be that way too, at once plain and a mystery.  
  
"Why would I? I don't like sharing."

 

"No," he agrees. "You don't."  
  
Will she share 'the Fetus', as she calls it? Will he know what his child is like, or will it vanish into the ether of the Woman's life, another piece of her that he isn't part of? A piece that is briefly guessed upon, but never truly seen?  
  
And why does it matter to him so much that it isn't? He's never had any desire to be a father, and that hasn't changed, not even now. He would be rubbish at it, and he knows this. All the same---  
  
"Surely you must be used to questions like this by now," he says. "I haven't become an ordinary conversationalist."

 

She shrugs, a full-body shrug, almost a liquid dance that seems to shed any concern she might be harbouring. Seemed to.   
  
The small frown does not fade, is not sloughed off by the shrug. "You aren't," she agrees. A long pause, and she feels as if the silence stretches the distance still between them. "But I can usually figure out why you ask what you do," she admits. "Not this time."

 

He can't leave. He can't swan off for a few hours to get his bearings back together, not this time. This is all they have, and then he leaves for London, and she to---wherever she's going next. He has to stay, but he doesn't want to be having this conversation anymore. It's become about him, and the uncomfortable fact that she wants to understand why he's brought any of this up.  
  
"That's---not what we're talking about," he says. "We were talking about your father."

 

His discomfort is obvious. It is one of very few things that are obvious about this conversation they are suddenly having. She isn't certain how they are having it in the first place, or what it is truly about, but there is so little time _left_.  
  
She takes another step towards him, her eyes fixed on his face, as if some small gesture will give him away, will be the key to unlock the puzzle.  
  
"No, _you_ were talking about my father," she corrects slowly. "About a family I don't care to admit to having. And now you're deflecting. Back to fathers." She stands directly in front of him now, close enough to touch. She is close here, she can feel it.  
  
So, she guesses. Fitting, perhaps, given his admission that all he has with her are guesses.   
  
"You aren't obligated to me or the Inconvenience, Mr. Holmes. I won't have you thinking you _owe_ her anything."

 

"I don't owe anyone anything," he replies. She's closer, now, and that somehow makes it harder. He's been pushing, and sometimes pulling, and now he has no idea where he wants her to be, or where he wants himself to be.  
  
"But if you did want me in his life, I would be." He says. "I can't promise the kind of father I'd be."  
  
He can rarely promise the kind of man he is on any given day, but she knows that. She must know that.

 

And there it is. The key that makes his questions fall into place. The key that makes it all make _sense_. It surprises her, how obvious it was, now that she knew it. But then she would never have guessed it, they were too extraordinary to worry about things like _fatherhood_.   
  
But then they make each other ordinary. Sometimes.  
  
"And what is it _you_ want?" she asks quietly. Her fingers twitch, her hand wanting to rest on her stomach, but she forces it still, away from the obvious. "If you could have our holidays and London both, would you still want--" She sighs, frustrated. "This is all an experiment. Is it one you _want_ to observe?"  
  
The words come out in a rush, and her fingers curl, clench back digging into her palms.  
  
Odd, how she knew what he liked, and yet for the life of her at this one moment, she is not at all certain she knows what he wants.

 

"It is something I...I thought I would observe," he admits. "Occasionally, at the very least."  
  
An experiment, she says. An experiment, _they_ said. It made the pill easier to swallow, the idea of the Woman as a mother simpler, less complicated. But it still _is_ complicated. It still means her life upturned, and his own undamaged in London, particularly if she chooses never to involve him in it.  
  
"What if the experiment fails?" he asks. "If he's---"  
  
The words _like me_ are almost said.  
  
"Where will he go, then?"

 

She is not certain what she expects, what she _wants_ him to say. She knows, on some level, that he is curious about the Inconvenience, even as they are both aware they are possibly the single most unlikely and most unfit people to be tasked with raising a child. And there too, is her refusal to be bound to him by anything at all, her insistence that no obligations will bind him to her or the Inconvenience.

It helps, to hear him both admit he owed neither her nor the Inconvenience anything. She doubts it is true; for them, their debts to each other accumulated rather than repaid, but it is a convenient lie, a convenient means of believing they are as unmoved and unsentimental as they would like to be.

But the fact that he admits it, in his own roundabout way, in the way they couched what they refuse to acknowledge in the space between words. It matters. It shouldn't matter and she does not want it to matter but it does.

Sentiment. It was best that they were in Moscow. If this holiday were not so soon over they might drown themselves in sentiment.

"I can handle _you_ with little trouble. I doubt something with only half your genetic material would be so difficult." She does not tell him that she had been a handful as well, strong-willed, brilliant, and manipulative even as a child. It would be absolutely brilliant to see how they both would interact in another human being. "And if I can't, she'll come to Baker Street for your observation. Your chemistry experiments would be a better match than Sibyl."

 

He can't stop the sincerity in his voice, he can't stop his own words.  
  
"I don't want to hurt him."  
  
He doesn't know how, exactly, but he knows he _can_. An experiment done incorrectly, a child held too harshly, a word spoken out of turn. These are things that can break someone much smaller than himself. He wants the fetus, or whatever she calls it, but at the same time, he's terrified of it.  
  
Much like what he has with the Woman, really.

 

She shrugs, and it is not the smooth, carefully careless gesture she normally employs, not the sensual rolling of her shoulders to denote carelessness, but a more brittle, hesitant gesture, her arms closed to her body, elbows tucked in tight. She does not look at him then, instead turning her head just enough to avoid his eye, to look off into the middle distance.  
  
"You are about as fit for this experiment as I am," she tells him. She is, after all, nothing maternal. There is little softness, little kindness or understanding in her. She is vicious and vindictive, tempestuous and temperamental. Hardly the sort of woman to want a pet fish, much less a child. But she had left the clinic in St. Petersburg. Some part of her wants to know, to find out, just what this experiment could be.  
  
The same is true of him, really. That they are both curious, intensely so, about what they could be when they know they are utter rubbish together. "Fortunately for all involved, I think we've both proven to be quick studies."

 

"I mastered French in 26 days," Sherlock explains. "I imagine child-rearing can't be as complicated."  
  
In fact, he imagines it could be far worse, but the false bravado feels better in this moment. He is impudent, a child inside of a 37 year old man. He will end up arguing with the boy (or girl, if the Woman is right), and will never be able to discipline. He will _fail_ , a voice in his head tells him (a voice that sounds suspiciously like Mycroft.)

 

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, a tiny spark of warmth. His bravado is false, as is hers, not that she would ever admit it, even to herself, least of all to him.   
  
"You wanted to observe," she reminds him lightly, her fingers uncurling, the faint red crescents of her nails digging into her palm now visible. She does not move towards him, not again, not now, but remains exactly where she is. "You've never been one to fail to get what you want, Mr. Holmes."

 

"Yes," he agrees. "I do."  
  
Why is she still standing there? Why is he still standing over here? Why are they so far apart and yet so close together? Why is this the way it always is with them?  
  
"I'm going to embrace you," he announces, not moving from his place.

 

She raises an eyebrow at his words, all amusement and challenge.   
  
"Rather difficult to do so from there," she remarks, but some of the tension in her body leaves her, and she shrugs, and this time it is the fluid artless shrug in its casual sexuality, as she tosses a lock of dark, idly curling hair back over her shoulder.   
  
It is almost painful how _ordinary_ they make each other. Irene hates that, hates how she _wants_ the announced embrace, how they have been made so utterly ordinary as to argue about a _child_ in the middle of the street. She glances away from him as she adds, wryly, almost as if to herself, "Australia's weather is terrible this time of year."

 

"Yes," he agrees. "You should come here, so we can. Embrace."  
  
Australia. Sydney. Staying just a while longer. They could extend it one more trip, one more month, another few weeks. On and on until they started to bore each other. It would happen, eventually. Why not press the issue, why not continue it?  
  
Because the weather was terrible, of course. And he was prepared, now. He was ready to say goodbye, now. She was ready to start her life, now.  
  
He remains where he's standing.

 

The spark of warmth, the slight quirk of her lips from earlier, grows to a more familiar smile as she regards him, as he remains standing exactly where he is, and she in turn shifts and crosses her arms beneath her breasts.  
  
"Should I? Rather more efficient for you to come to me," she remarks as she tilts her head, nodding ahead of her, away from him. "As the destination I have in mind is in that direction."

 

"Since when have you been so concerned with efficiency?" he demands.

 

"Since when have you felt the need to declare your intentions?" she answers. This is more like them, to argue and refuse to give an inch, far more like them than their previous conversation and its tenuous, ordinary vulnerability.  
  
Most of the pedestrians pass them without a word, though a few looked at them askance. An old woman, however, her back bowed as she dragged her wheeled wire cart of groceries behind her, muttered at them in heavy Russian-laced English, "Get on with it and out of the street, you idiot children."

 

It would take nothing to move forward. It would take nothing to move forward, and do as he intends, to put an arm around her, or whatever "an embrace" would be, exactly. Something sentimental. But that requires giving in. And while he feels that he could, he _could_ give in, that would be giving something away, something that they had before---well, _before_  
  
He wonders if that's why she isn't moving forward, either.  
  
He takes one step towards her. Just one. That's all he'll give.

 


	10. Galatea and Athena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the end of their holiday and the bundle of cells currently incubating in the Woman's body, the changes that Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler have wrought in each other become impossible to ignore. But they are not ones to accept such changes easily. If at all.

It would take so little to move, to take the two steps towards Sherlock Holmes. It would take nothing at all, nothing except pride. And they were prideful creatures, their pride like armour and steel cages all at once. It is precisely what keeps Irene rooted to the spot, until--  
  
He takes one step, and the distance between them is halved.   
  
She looks at him, and the old woman snorts derisively as she passes them, and Irene rolls her eyes, banishing the woman from her mind as soon as she is past.   
  
She swallows, and takes the one step forward, until she is all but toe-to-toe with him again. As they always seem to find themselves, toe-to-toe, head-to-head.  
  
"That wasn't so hard, now was it?" she murmurs. Hard to say whether she meant the question for him or for herself.

 

"Yes, it was," he replies. There is no point in denying it. For them, bending at all is immensely difficult, and lying to each other is just a waste of time.  
  
He lifts his hands to cup her face, and leans down to press his lips to hers.  
  
They are dramatically like each other. Dramatically like each other, and dramatically unlike each other in the right sort of ways. He adores the ways they do and do not fit. She must know that. She knows so much of him already.  
  
He can hear the old woman let out an annoyed sigh, but she is immediately deleted from his mind.

 

His lips are on hers before she can contradict him. He is right, of course, that the single step had been absolutely difficult, that it was more than simple a physical step, because they are far too like each other in that respect to give in. But to tell him he was right would take more than the pride spent in a single step.  
  
They are mirrors of each other, similar in so many ways and yet subtly different in others. It was why they would be rubbish together for any longer, why they are thrillingly intoxicatingly together now.   
  
His hands cup her face, his thumb against the curve of her jaw, and Irene rests her right hand against his arm, her fingertips light against the pulse point at his wrist, as her left hand curls into his hair.   
  
She kisses him back, slowly and thoroughly, and she can taste ash and cigarettes on his tongue, lingering whiskey, mystery and submission. It is something that is uniquely him, perhaps uniquely _them_ , and for all her self denial, she will miss him, she will miss _this_ even as she moves on.  
  
 _I won't miss you_ , she wants to tell him. But the words that come out, that are murmured against his lips, that are pressed between their mouths as if they can physically be contained, are "I'll miss this."  
  
She wouldn't miss _him_ , she'll know exactly where he is, where to find him, what case he'd solved, because John Watson's blog will record it all, but she will miss this, the feel of his hands against her cheek, the warmth of him next to her, the freedom of being simply as they are now, not the Consulting Detective and the Woman, but the late Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, nearly ghosts, free to move, to embrace in the middle of a Moscow street.

 

"Yes," he says. It's a confirmation, because he'll miss this, too. This push and pull, the way she draws him out of his comfortable areas like she's pulling a thorn from a wound. He wants to be embedded in what he knows, in what inflamed area of himself he's known for so long, but she won't let him. She clenches around him like a hemostat, holds tight, and _pulls_ , and he can't help but move where she tells him to go.  
  
And he'll miss that. Festering where he lays seems so _boring_ , now.  
  
He curls his fingers to match hers, his against her pulse point.  
  
"We have a crime circle to destroy," he murmurs. "Cause some trouble with me?"

 

She pulls back just enough to breathe, to taste air on her tongue rather than him, and she is absolutely certain her pulse is quick beneath his fingertips.   
  
She laughs, low and shaky and delighted, at his question, and Irene opens her eyes, long lashes not quite hiding bright dilated pupils as she looks at him. "Be careful with such an invitation, Mr. Holmes," she tells him. "I might cause more trouble than you anticipate."

 

He doesn't have to say _You already do._ The speed of his pulse, the smirk on his face, it all tells her these words without anything having to be spoken.  
  
He lowers his hand, sliding it down so that he takes her hand, his fingers moving around hers. A quick hand-holding. Something just for a moment, just to hold her hand. Something affectionate. Another embrace. He isn't certain how long he'll hold her hand for. Not long, he thinks. Just for a few minutes.  
  
"It's the right invitation for the two of us," he says. "Anything less would be _boring_."

 

This is why Moscow has to be the end.  
  
Because sentiment has seeped into the smallest motions, into the touch of a hand, even into the way she notices the winking of light on the diamonds on her ring.  
  
It is a relief to know this is the end, even as she indulges.  
  
Her fingers curl, twine around his, and Irene smirks in response, her expression one that mirrors his. She steps away, but her fingers remain caught with his, and she pulls him along. "As long as you can keep up. I intend to misbehave," she replies, teasing. "And your businessman needs to dress the part."

 

He smirks, a little curl of a smile.  
  
"But first, we should eat."  
  
He gives her a nod. "You're going to need more nutrients. And more calcium."  
  
Not that he was researching on his phone.  
  
But he might've been.

 

She does not stop walking, though there is a momentary hesitation in her steps, and she looks back over her shoulder, scrutinizing him.   
  
"You've been studying, I see," is all she says before turning her attention back to the street. She ignores the sandwich stand tucked in between a travel agency and a gauche little souvenir stand selling poorly painted models of the Kremlin.   
  
She leads them another half a block before she asks, a smile in her voice, "What percentage chance did you calculate I would do the exact opposite of what you suggest?"

 

"Considering you won't harm your own health, I'd say you'll listen," he says, smirking. "You won't like it. But you will."  
  
And he will, somehow or other, pay for it later. Which he is, of course, completely comfortable with.  
  
"I often bribe John Watson by offering to eat as well. Will this work for you?"

 

"Skipping meals for a day or two would hardly be detrimental to my health," she objects, glancing over her shoulder at him. She is not _offended_ by his obvious ploy, rather clearly enjoying herself, though with absolutely no intention of making it easy for him.  
  
"And I've far more expensive tastes than John Watson. You'll have to do much better than that if you insist on resorting to bribery."

 

"I'm not hungry," he replies. "It's only been...hmm...what day is it? How long _has_ it been since I've last eaten?"  
  
He knows she won't endanger the cell package she's carrying. He considers the food options they have. He knows nothing about Russian cuisine. He knows very little about cuisine in general, but suspects he's going to have to learn, especially if he goes on holidays with the Woman while she's pregnant. He'll want to chart health, necessary nutrients, and plot dinners appropriately. He'll have to _eat regularly_ as well, an idea which both bores and annoys him.  
  
"We'll need the energy output anyway. I can't have Xanax in my system, not while I'm playing the idiotic employer."

 

She laughs, and tsks. There is something almost domestic in his response, in his concern. Though she is, she realizes belatedly, irritated that his mention of food has reminded her that she's hardly eaten, and that she was, in fact, hungry.   
  
She doubts he planned that.  
  
Still, it was irritating; he'll think he's won by some virtue of skill and not sheer luck, at this rate.  
  
"Then perhaps you should have a _pirozhki_ ," she says. "I expect carbohydrates and protein and fat would go well with all the fretting you're indulging in."

 

He turns to her, and he imagines the expression on his face betrays the fact that he has _no idea_ what that food is supposed to be.  
  
"Fretting is what Mrs. Hudson and John Watson do," he says. "I'm just stating fact."

 

He turns and she moves with him, casually disregarding personally space so that she stands nearly pressed front-to-front as he protests.   
  
"You're stating facts in support of _concern_ ," she corrects smugly. "And you already admitted that your John Watson frets about your caloric intake, which is precisely what you're doing now with me, Mr. Holmes."

 

He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Would you rather I didn't show concern?" he asks. "Ignored yours and his health completely? Pretended I didn't care? We both know I can do that _very well._ "  
  
Because if that's truly what she wants, he will give it to her, but he doesn't think it is. And part of him wants her to admit to that. After all, he just inadvertently admitted he cared.

 

She smirks at his raised eyebrow and leans in closer, as if daring him to pull away, daring him to _pretend_ not to care.  
  
"You do that very well, _pretend_ ," she agrees, that same smirk still on her lips. "Still, I'll only be flattered by your concern until you start insisting on prenatal vitamin supplements. Then I'll leave you to hang from the lamppost without your trousers."

 

The amusement fades from his face to something very serious. Because such an insistence is downright _idiotic_.  
  
"You'd urinate most of those away, why would I insist on that?"

 

"Good."  
  
That is perhaps the only thing he could have said to keep her from being utterly contrary.  
  
She steps further into his space, no longer merely toe to toe but pressed against him, all soft curves and hidden knives, before backing away again, this time towards a shop on the corner, where the scent of fresh bread wafted. "You could have deduced what a _pirozhki_ is, you realize. There's at least one boy on the street wearing half of a meat pie on his face."

 

Half a dozen white images of bread and meat and fat combinations of food drifted in his vision before she spoke, and most of them dropped away.  
  
"A meat pie," he says. "Yes, of course. Obvious."  
  
Fats, protein, carbohydrates. It should have been easy to determine.  
  
He double-timed his steps until he was at her level, and then reached out to the shop's door to hold it open for her.  
  
"I'd have worked it out in another moment."

 

He speeds up his steps to catch up, and Irene gives him the most falsely innocent look she can manage as she ducks under his arm to enter the small shop. "One of these days, Mr. Holmes, you'll admit you were distracted," she murmurs.  
  
She straightens, however, as she enters the shop, and her accent falls back into the Ukrainian-touched Russian she'd employed back at the airport as she meets the eye of the proprietress, a stout, steely woman in her 60s who sells the meat stuffed breads the children in the back of the shop form, and who, judging by the state of her shoes, sold information to whoever cared to buy.  
  
" _A pirozhki for my friend_ ," she says to the woman. " _And a moment of your time_?"

 

He scanned the room. What languages did the woman running the shop not speak? Nothing European, that would startle her. Not English, that would make him a tourist, she might gouge her prices. He looked for signs of anything Ukrainian. Nothing anti-government, nothing showing she might speak that language. Whatever the Woman wanted to speak to this woman about, it was supposed to be a private conversation.  
  
"Don't forget to buy one for yourself," he said to the Woman in Ukrainian.  
  
He pulled out a cigarette. This was one of those countries where he could still smoke in shops, wasn't it? Last two.

 

Her Russian lacks the delicacy of her French, and she stumbles over a few words, the vocabulary heavy and untried on her tongue. But her stumbling plays into the shopkeeper's expectations, that they are a pair of Ukrainians, seeing the big city, perhaps. She continues chatting at the woman as the woman plucks a steaming bun from the case and wraps it in paper, sets it on the counter.  
  
She is taciturn, gruff, and barely responds until Irene slides a bill, too large for the food, but not large enough to cause notice, across the counter. " _The Poroshenko valet, really?_ " she prompts.   
  
The woman nods gruffly, and gestures to the street. " _Down that way,_ " she says as she takes the bill in hand, as it disappears into her flour dusted pockets.  
  
Irene nods her thanks, takes her single parcel, and turns to leave. She stops when she sees Sherlock pulling out his cigarettes, and she turns back to the woman in question, offering another, smaller bill. " _Another, please._ "

 

He looks at the bun in question. Some sort of a meat pasty, tucked up on itself. Filled with---beef, from the scent of it. He can see a lot of things about the shop if he looks---places that haven't been washed, flour that hasn't been restocked, sugar that's past its expiration. He shouldn't eat this.  
  
Of course, _some_ food is far better than _no_ food, and the Woman needs to eat, as well. He tugs off his glove and picks at the crust of the pasty experimentally.  
  
"I've seen something like this before," he says, again in Ukrainian. "Something...my mother tried to make once. I say _tried_. She was an excellent physicist and a terrible chemist."

 

She watches his eyes flicker from the pastry to the rest of the shop, to the little traces of sugar, of the last flour delivery (at least two weeks ago) and it is obvious he considers that his best option would be to refrain from eating. She, on the other hand, was perfectly happy to eat it, not that she would until he did. To do otherwise would be losing.  
  
"I expect our proprietress is far better at this than your mother, given she does a swifter business in food than in information," she answers in kind. The shopkeeper, having gained her money, ignores them. "But all this mentioning of parentage does make me very curious about these parents you have, Mr. Holmes. Curious enough to investigate, perhaps."

 

He _cringes_.  
  
"Must you?" he says. "She'll _dote_. And I believe I've been embarrassed far too often in your presence enough as it is."  
  
And he's never brought someone home before. The idea of a Woman arriving and saying she knew Sherlock, much less than saying she was his lover or whatever the hell they were, was _terrifying_. And his mother would work it out. She was dreadfully ordinary in many ways, but also astoundingly clever in others.

 

She takes his arm and is almost _cheery_ as she drags him out of the shop. Back on the streets, her pleasure is even more obvious as she reverts back to English while examining her own pastry with a sidelong look at him.  
  
"You sound positively encouraging," she needles him. She has no actual plans to meet his parents, of course. How utterly, painfully ordinary would _that_ be, as if they were somehow in some sort of relationship.  
  
Still, it is the revelation of another piece of the puzzle around Sherlock Holmes, and she enjoys unraveling him in every way. "But is the embarrassment worth the knowledge that you'd be orchestrating your brother's own personal hell of torment? Imagine his reaction at Christmas dinner then."

 

"Only if we made certain the bundle of cells in your body was awful to him every step of the way," Sherlock replies. "But only when my mother isn't in the room."  
  
His father, conversely, is a bit of a moron. Not that he's a terrible man, of course. Just...a bit dim.  
  
He swaps the pasty to the hand with the cigarette and lifts it to his mouth. The idea of the old flour sticks in his mind, but the food tastes, well, good enough. He chases it with a drag on the cigarette.  
  
"We wouldn't be able to tell her that he's mine, of course," he adds. "They'd want us to get married."

 

She wrinkles her nose at the idea, despite the rings that have stayed on their fingers, despite the knowledge that no one else would ever get under their skins quite like each other. But the idea itself is so painfully ordinary. Pedestrian. Obvious.  
  
Hardly _them_.  
  
"I think you've ensured yourself never having to have that awkward family dinner, Mr. Holmes," she says, taking a bite of her own food, chewing thoughtfully. "Should I be impressed?"

 

"Hmmm, not in this case," he says around a mouthful of smoke and food. "It was hardly manipulation, simply stating the facts."  
  
He wonders, idly, if he could track down her family. He could, he thinks. It would take time, a little effort. It would be an interesting curiosity, like knowing John Watson's middle name. But, while he is normally oblivious to what would or would not be a violation to the people he loves, he feels like that would be a _violation_ to the Woman. Taking things a step too far, going to a place she would not like to revisit.  
  
It would be like visiting John Watson's sister. That is also something Sherlock has never done.  
  
"What shop are you leading us to first?" he asks.

 

He is, irritatingly, not the only one for whom a combination of carbohydrates, protein, and fat was welcome. The food reminds Irene that her body is in fact quite hungry, and her second bite perhaps betrays that fact by how quickly she takes it.  
  
Another pause as she chews, and she gestures down the street, and left along the intersection. "A well-known suit tailor first," she says. "The businessman dresses himself, and expects his employees to match his standards."  
  
She takes another bite, thinks, chews. "You'd never find out anything from my father," she continues. "Dull egotistical men never take notice of their surroundings."

 

He takes another drag of his cigarette before returning to the food.  
  
"What makes you think I wanted to find anything out from your father?" Sherlock says. "You've eliminated him from your life, he can't be that terribly interesting."

 

"Because you won't find out anything from me but best guesses" she retorts. She turns left at the intersection, a step ahead of him, and the storefront in question, a business owned by a single tailor and his three assistants is ahead, a mannequin in a dove-grey suit in its shop window.

"And you're moderately clever." A twitch of her lips at that particular understatement. "You could find him. But he won't tell you anything. I doubt he even realizes I knew how to fly, much less that one of his lovers taught me."

 

His hand snatches out for hers, catching her wrist. She's being _too_ coy, too relaxed about this. There's a level that's play, and then there's a level that insults his intelligence. And there are very few things he won't take an insult to.  
  
" _Moderately_?" he demands. "I thought you didn't want to challenge me."  
  
He starts to consider how he could find her father, standing right here, in Russia. Could he? What would it take, what scraps of information could he pull up from what she's said.  
  
"You were in your teenage years when you saw him last," he says. "Not older than nineteen. You were taught to fly the helicopter, but not by the neighbor's boy, because flying a helicopter was common where you grew up. An island, then? Somewhere a wealthy playboy socialite with expensive tastes in women hides away. Am I getting warmer, or do I need the internet to assist?"

 

It is little moments like these that hammer home just how similar they were. After all, it had been the same jab, the insult of _moderate_ cleverness that had goaded her into figuring out the sportsman's death a lifetime ago. It is no surprise that it would do the same to him.   
  
It is dangerous to let him know so much about her, yet here she is, stepping into his space again, chin up, refusing to be intimidated. Refusing to let him win.  
  
"Close, but wrong on multiple accounts, Mr. Holmes," she answers, her words sharp as steel. "He signed over enduring power of attorney on my twentieth birthday. And destitute Russian princesses looking for fortunes have uncommon skills. And are better teachers than the neighbors, but just as easy to manipulate. Or had you forgotten noticing the way I held the controls? It was in the hands."

 

"You haven't mentioned your mother, but not because she's dead," Sherlock says. "Death creates a sense of pride, a feeling that they lived. No, yours is a sense of embarrassment."  
  
He considers his own words. He can't read her, but he can read things in her absence of reaction.  
  
"She was one of his conquests, one of the female attributes to his lifestyle, his many _lovers_ as you called them. And left you."  
  
He considers her, looking at the Woman. The beautiful, manipulative, strong-willed Woman who brought a nation to its knees with only a few careful pushes in the right direction. She never _had_ to bed anyone to get what she wanted; she simply would.  
  
"You grew up beating her and beating him all at the same time, and now they're both so far and so insignificant, everything I deduce is useless."

 

She looks back at him, pale eyes unflinching, his words washing over her without a reaction. She has, after all, had a lifetime to make her own way in the world, to be what _she_ wanted and not what circumstances of birth made her.  
  
"Good." She steps out of his space, and the fluidity with which she does so is utterly at odds with how difficult it truly was to draw away from him. The tension between them is magnetic, addictive, and even now, when faced with both the threat that he will undo her past and the knowledge that he thinks it would be useless to do so, it is difficult to pull away.  
  
She turns and heads for the shop in question, adding over her shoulder.  
  
"Galatea and Athena," she reminds him. "You should use the internet to assist with those names."

 

It's everything in him not to do that search _right now_ , but he can hold off until he goes into the dressing room. Whoever they were, she said before that they were brought into this world fully formed and breathing scandal. It's what he imagines the Woman would like to be, in the same way that Sherlock likes to imagine himself always the adult, always the consulting detective with encyclopedic knowledge of crimes and shoe polish. He likes to forget about the little curly-haired boy who genuinely believed his older brother when he called him _stupid_.  
  
He can de-age the Woman in his mind, shrink the cheekbones, lower the height, add the fine hair and freckles of youth. He can imagine what she looked like, but he can't imagine who she was. Even if he had a spreadsheet of who she could have been in front of him, that Girl won't exist, not when he has the Woman in front of him.  
  
He won't tell the Woman that no matter what he uncovers, no matter the deductions he finds, she will never be anything but who she is now to him. She came into his life as naked and impervious as a marble statue, and no matter the dents they've made in each other's armor, she has remained very much the same in his mind ever since.  
  
He follows, because he always follows.

 


	11. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having left Mycroft Holmes behind, all that remains of Moscow is Irene Adler's parting gift to Sherlock Holmes: the destruction of one last part of James Moriarty's web before she ascends the empty throne. But they will have to dress the part...

She does not relax, because there is nothing to relax, no tension to betray her, but she is relieved nonetheless. She prefers to be Irene Adler as she is now, the Woman, the dominatrix, the irresistible force that brought a nation to its knees rather than the memory of the girl who broke a toe in ballet lessons, the girl who grew attached to the pedigreed, penniless women drawn to her father's wealth like moths to a flame.   
  
She prefers to be Galatea, the statue made flesh, rather than the young woman who learned early that manipulation came as naturally to her as breathing, who spent her childhood ensuring the careless women who swept into her life would not leave her penniless and broken. She prefers to be Athena, sprung fully formed into the world from the head of Zeus rather than the girl who protected a fortune and a father too dull to recognize the lies and easy affection spun by the women around him.   
  
Irene Adler makes her way in the world, free of the girl's history, her childish tears and trials.  
  
A strand of dented tin bells announce their presence as Irene sweeps into the small shop, the smell of wool and cedar spilling out through the open door. A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard looks up from a workbench, and his eyes sweep over Irene without a thought, and focuses on Sherlock immediately, measuring.  
  
" _You want a suit, yes_?" he asks sharply in heavy Russian.

 

Sherlock immediately despises this man. Overlooking the Woman is a sign of small intellect. That, along with the scrape marks on his cuff links, which indicate that he's a cheap man who won't get them professionally cleaned despite the fact that they were his wife's father's. This upsets his wife, it's obvious from the imperfect creases on his cuffs, but he continues to do this, there are many scuffs over time.  
  
Sherlock continues in Ukrainian. "You pick. I'm not speaking Russian while I'm in this store. He doesn't speak Ukrainian, look at his jaw structure."

 

The way his jaw tenses, the disdainful way his gaze sweeps over the tailor, and the way he dismisses the man for her makes Irene smile with amusement, though she hides it behind a long suffering look. She rolls her eyes and squares her shoulders, stepping forward with little more than a shift in carriage, suddenly all sharp, business-like crispness. It is not the dominatrix's self-assured smoldering sexuality, but something cold, sleek and predatory.   
  
She borrows Moran's movements, the sniper's heavy deliberation, and refines it. In her guise, she isn't the sniper, isn't content to stay still until the precise moment to strike, but she stalks, ready to slip a thin knife into a heart. " _Yes, a suit,_ " she answers in Russian. " _My employer has heard of you from a countryman. He says you do fine work._ "  
  
The tailor turns reluctantly to her, scowls at having to work through an intermediary, and grumbles, " _Countryman? I don't do work for many foreigners. Why should I work for you?_ "

 

"He's greedy and cheap," Sherlock tells her in Ukrainian. "Look at his cuff links. Polished with his own materials, and not a good job, either. He could afford to do better, he clearly gets the cuff links on his professional pieces polished outside. It's his own materials he's taking the hit on. His trousers have been rehemmed four times. He puts his best face forward, but he needs the work. He clearly wants you to _beg_ so he can raise his prices."  
  
He tosses a smirk in her direction. She'll never give this man anything resembling a beg.

 

He smirks, and the gesture tempts her to break character. But no, that wouldn't be _fun_. It would be too easy to break the tailor as the dominatrix, but to bend him as the assassin... That was a challenge. She responds with merely a raised eyebrow and a small, thin smile, nodding crisply as if taking orders and turning back to the tailor.  
  
" _No? And Mr. Poroshenko spoke so highly of your work,_ " Irene says, a false sigh on her lips. The assassin's patience is in the hunt, not in these little games. In these games she is quick and ruthless, almost artless.   
  
And it is quick how the tailors eyes widen at the mention of the Ukrainian businessman's name, the name Irene had gleaned from the woman at the shop. Poroshenko. " _That countryman,_ " he babbles. " _Yes, he put in a very large order, quite busy--_ "  
  
Irene rolls her eyes visibly to the man, for once wearing her disdain openly, carelessly. She switches back to Ukrainian, and her tone is obvious even if the man in question cannot understand the words. "Don't think I'll forgive you for making me talk to this idiot," she tells Sherlock. She gestures towards the door, the universal sign that strikes horror into a salesman. _Shall we leave?_

 

Sherlock's eyes are on his mobile, the consummate busy and unimpressed businessman.  
  
In Greek religion and mythology, Athena or Athene (/əˈθiːnə/ or /əˈθiːniː/), also referred to as Pallas Athena, is the goddess of wisdom, courage, inspiration, civilization, law and justice, strategic warfare, mathematics, strength, strategy, the arts, crafts, and skill. Boring boring boring. Athena is portrayed as a shrewd companion of heroes and is the patron goddess of heroic endeavour.  
  
He glances up, and notices the Woman's gesture. He gives her a gentle, dismissive look. His character has no opinion on the matter. Clothing makes the man, but he's already so well made, it doesn't matter what he wears, or where he wears it from. He raises an eyebrow, and lifts the mobile in her direction. _Do_ you _think we should leave?_

 

The tailor, who despite Sherlock's dismissal of his business sense, does good work according to Irene's eye is balanced on knife's edge, his pride warring with necessity. Irene considers him, a gesture that is purely hers and not some false face of the part she plays, and weighs his pride against his need.

Whether his pride would topple when faced with a rival or with the inevitable march of progress. The name of the prominent Ukrainian businessman is key. He prides himself on the prominent business, on the well-known clientele. He wouldn't dare risk his prestige falling to a competitor.

" _Very well then_ ," she says turning back to the tailor, hiding a smirk at Sherlock's preoccupation with his mobile. She offers him a cool, polite smile. " _As you have too much work for my client's needs, Sergievsky will have to do_ ," she continues, naming the more well-kept storefront three doors down. The obvious competitor.

The tailor's face twists in horror, warring with pride, and Irene turns away, taking Sherlock's elbow as if to guide him out without the need for him to take his attention from his mobile.

Pitching her voice low, Irene murmurs in Ukrainian as she steers him to the door, "Three, two--"

" _If he only needs a suit or two, I can fit him in._ " The words rush out of the tailor in a torrent, as if his pride were a dam in which need had found a crack.

"One."

Irene smirks to herself as she turns back to the man.

 

Sherlock keeps his gaze on the door for a moment, unable to control the smirk of pride on his face as the Woman turns away. This idiot of a man really had no idea what he was dealing with when they walked through the door, did he?  
  
Sherlock returns his gaze to his mobile and continues to scan through the article regarding Athena. The important thing is that the goddess bested many men and appeared fully formed from the leader of the gods' head. Perhaps that's what the Woman meant; she had no childhood.  
  
"Something sharp and assuming," he asks the Woman.

 

The assassin wouldn't rub it in, wouldn't tweak the man's pride to remind him he was beaten. The assassin _would_ , however, be pleased by the reversal, would smile and go about with business, whether or not that galled the man. And so Irene does, she turns back to the tailor and smiles, pleasant and professional, as she gestures to the window.   
  
She spins the story quickly, explains their haste, the need for a single suit that could be worn out of the store. Her employer's bags had been delayed at the airport, they _must_ have something presentable for a business dinner that very evening.  
  
The tailor nods, having swallowed his pride, now seeing the opportunity for business, to salve his ego with by insisting on a fee for the rush order. Irene waves it away. " _The grey,_ " she says, " _We wouldn't want our friends in the Kremlin to be too outshone._ "  
  
It is precisely the right thing to say to this man desperate for prestige, the lure of a politician (of multiple politicians) to impress, to lure to his patronage. He tuts, suggests perhaps a different shade of grey than the pale silver in the window, and informs them that the dressing room is in the back and he will have something for Sherlock to try on in moments if he'll just be so kind as to head for the back.

 

Sherlock only vaguely listens to the conversation. He needs to know his cover, which he does, but after that it's just talk and none of it all that important. He's mostly confused about these Grecian mythos that the Woman has had him look up.  
  
He has a feeling he's taking them too literally. It's not that he's ever been very good at understanding religion at all, it's all very silly and improbable. But what these women have to do with the Woman makes little sense. Perhaps she's trying to explain to him that he's deified her too much, that he's placed her on a pedestal that she shouldn't be on. Which is very silly, of course. Sherlock never places anyone on pedestals they don't belong on.  
  
After a few more seconds of frustration, he indulges in a flip back to John's blog. He hasn't visited that site in a long time. John, it appears, is being cathartic and posting old adventures they had been on together. Little things, a way to remember Sherlock. Something strikes Sherlock, just for a moment. A feeling not unlike regret.  
  
Of course, John has been fine this whole time. Of course he has. Sherlock has certainly been fine.

 

If he were to ask, though Irene knew he never would because asking would be admitting he did not know, Irene would tell him that Athena and Galatea were women who appeared fully formed, women who came into the world without parentage, without pasts except those they created of themselves. It was precisely how she liked to be, the Woman fully formed, the Woman worshipped, and in Athena's case, the Woman implacable if crossed.

She liked being the Woman, rather than a woman grown from a past child.

But he is busy with his mobile and the tailor busy pulling together an ensemble to impress, and Irene sweeps her attention over the store, over the pile of cloth and buttons on the tailor's work table, the piles of bills and invoices and the ledger on his counter. She turns away before her attention could be noticed, and steps close to Sherlock.

A quick glance at his phone reveals John Watson's blog, but she has a goal and little time enough to achieve it. So she only says, in quick Ukrainian, her tone deferential despite her actual words, "Be a nuisance in the dressing room. Keep the tailor in with you for ten minutes."

 

Sherlock's gaze stays on his mobile.  
  
"He was last counting the stack of 5,000 rubles," he tells her. "But it seems like a bit of a waste, stealing from someone who clearly can't have more than a few thousand pounds worth of money in the store."  
  
Unless, of course, that's not what she's after. Sherlock's eyes are on his mobile, but he considers the room as he saw it when he entered. The desk, the drawer, the money, the ledger. A ledger and the knowledge who a skilled tailor suits could be worth more than the pile of bills on the table.

 

His focus remains on his mobile, at least outwardly, though Irene has no doubt he's cataloging what he'd seen of the small shop, filtering through what could possibly catch her attention. She doesn't tell him that his remark about the tailor's obvious lack of steady business, his desperation for it, was the catalyst.   
  
The ledger had been her aim before, not only to find out who dressed men of influence in Moscow, but the threads that tied them together. The obvious fact that the tailor did not advertise, in fact loathed the perceived gaucheness of advertising, but relied on word of mouth meant that his ledger was a map of trails, of lines of influence between the influential.   
  
A veritable web of political ties, so to speak. Something that would be dreadfully useful once they part. But the new knowledge of the tailor's less-than-well business made for something else interesting, the possibility of leverage. Of someone with influential links that could be pressured. Blackmailed. Rescued from financial ruin.  
  
That made the tailor himself appealing. Not that she'd tell him, not unless he figured it out on his own.  
  
"If I were after money, I'd bankrupt your brother first," she says instead as the tailor hurried back with an armful of charcoal grey trousers and matching jackets. A pause. "Now that could be fun. How embarrassing would it be for your brother's funds to be found in a Mexican narcotics dealer's back pocket?"

 

Sherlock smirks, but he gives a gentle shake of his head.  
  
"Annoying my brother is one thing, and he more than deserved being left where he was," he says. "But I don't want you to be Mycroft's enemy. He can be...formidable."  
  
It's not that Sherlock fears his brother. He simply knows what Mycroft is capable of, and he doesn't want that barrier in the Woman's way, not while she's building herself anew in this world. And Mycroft _would_ make her life difficult, if he didn't deem it worthy of ending her life. That would be something that Sherlock would find unforgivable, and, well, there was enough animosity between Sherlock and his brother.  
  
The tailor returns, and Sherlock looks up at him, distracted, but curious about the suit. He glances to the Woman, and nods.

 

There is a subtle but importance difference in his caution about his brother, one that Irene picks up on immediately. He does not tell her not to antagonize his brother, because to do so would be to ensure she _did_ , because she does not take well to interference. But that _he did not want her to_. It is not a request, not directly, because requests were power plays. To accept would be a concession, and to accept he would have to concede something in return.  
  
No, it was simply a statement of fact in and of itself, but a suggestion nonetheless phrased in such a way as to be acceptable to them both for her to simply agree.  
  
She gives a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders in response as the tailor returns, and he begins speaking in authoritative Russian, insisting his client enter the dressing room and disrobe.  
  
Irene gestures to the dressing room, a well appointed walk-in closet, really, and answers in Ukrainian, as if translating for the tailor. "Ten minutes," she says instead. "And I might even let you see what I find."

 

Sherlock gives her a nod, as though responding to the Ukrainian. Ten minutes. He imagines she only needs around five, but he'll give her closer to fifteen, just to be certain.  
  
The tailor is easier to read in the confined space of the dressing area. Sherlock behaves as a man used to being dressed would, but he fusses over the imaginary language barrier, and toys with his phone at inopportune times. The tailor, Sherlock determines, spent some time apprenticing in Italy, it's obvious from his overhand stitch, but he never had any intention of straying far from his home. He has three children, none of which visit him and---  
  
An odd thought strikes Sherlock. Will his own child visit him? What a strange, sentimental thought. Should Sherlock actually manage to live to an old age (a very unlikely thought in and of itself, but all the same), would he be visited? Would he be ignored, like his tailor was by his own children? Forgotten?

 

Irene gives them a full minute in the dressing room before she moves across the room, taking care not to disturb the pile of invoices with the speed of her passage. She makes for the ledger first, throwing it open to the latest date and working her way back.   
  
She could not take photos, not now, not yet. The mobiles she and Sherlock had used were, at the moment, too prone to being lost, discarded, and their security was too poor for information like this. Irene would have to settle again before she could acquire another mobile to her standards. But she has her memory, and while hers was not as quickly and efficiently thorough as Sherlock's more practiced memory, it is hardly difficult to commit a string of names to memory.  
  
 _VF Yanukovych_ , that was an interesting one, and Irene indulges in a moment of theorizing as she continues. She picks out fifteen or so names to memorize, most of them politicians, though a few she memorized based on their less extravagant purchasing habits. Likely chauffeurs, security, other individuals whose presence close to influence could itself be useful.  
  
Three minutes, at most, spent on the ledger, and she puts it back in place, moving on to the bills, the receipts of collections. More interesting names. _Antonov._ _Romanova_.   
  
She memorizes them quickly and is about to return to where she had been left with a bored expression when her toe meets something unexpected, a solid metal thud where she had been expecting soft wood, and pulling away a few bolts of unfurled cloth reveals a heavy metal safe.  
  
Irene smiles, anticipatory, and stoops to give it her full attention. Another five minutes. She had plenty of time.

 

The tailor is asking him to stand up straight, and Sherlock is deliberately slouching. This suit, however, _is_ well made. The Woman selected the shop well. The tailor's hands were deft, and the cut fits right. A well-fitting suit for a man with simple but expensive tastes. A great disguise for their covers.  
  
He straightens with the push against his back, and he feels the pins go into place on his jacket. If it were his own coat, he'd want it just a touch tighter, but his cover would want it to be more relaxed, more prone to long meetings and trips on planes, rather than tight for quick getaways and potential fights in alleyways that Sherlock was used to in London.  
  
Would be used to again, when he goes back. Back soon.  
  
"Are we nearly finished?" he asks in Ukrainian. He pulls out a broken Russian statement: " _Finished?_ " Impatience, of course. It's obvious the man is not finished.

 

The hidden safe is old, with a combination lock, and Irene runs her fingers along the edges. There are no dints, no mars on the surface. Clearly the safe had never been forced, which meant the man believes the old combination lock and the safe's position to be security enough. Irene presses her ear against the metal and begins to turn knob.  
  
The first click is obvious. Loud. 23. She changes direction and spins the dial past 23, listening again for the telltale tumbler drop.   
  
" _Finished_?"   
  
Sherlock's purposely broken Russian rings through the store, and Irene is not certain whether she hears a click of the tumbler or not. She rolls her eyes and begins again.  
  
23.47...  
  
16.  
  
The bolt disengages, and she pulls the safe's door open cautiously.  
  
Inside the safe are a few glass vials, several of them containing a dark powder. Irene picks on up and holds it to the light, and the powder takes on an iridescent sheen, emerald green and black. She sets it back in the safe, and turns her attention to the rest of the contents within.  
  
The vials, a small notebook, and three small, carefully stacked piles of bills. Euros. Rubles. And... Renminbi.   
  
Well _that_ was interesting.

 

Sherlock slips the jacket off of his shoulders, and he moves slowly, taking his time to remove the trousers. One step at a time. A little at a time, moving slowly. The tailor is patient, seeing money, seeing what he can do for himself and for the empty shop far more than for his time. If Sherlock is impatient but moving slowly, then there's nothing to worry about.  
  
When they finally exit the dressing room, it's seventeen minutes after they entered it. The Woman should have plenty of time to get what she needs.  
  
He doesn't acknowledge her when he exits, just moves back to his mobile.

 

When Sherlock and the tailor return exit the dressing room, Irene is standing near the door to the shop, looking out, a bland, bored expression on her face. Mycroft's wallet has been transferred from strapped to her thigh to her hand, and the tailor's workbench looks undisturbed.  
  
She turns and walks up to the bench as the tailor sets down his wares, setting aside the suit in question. It's unexpected, to see the tailor calm, not twitching with tension. But then the bored, wealthy businessman was hardly one to make trouble, not like one Sherlock Holmes, who did his best distracting by active irritation.  
  
" _Yes just the one,_ " she tells the tailor, who has picked up his ledger, opened it to the most recent page. " _Anatoli Chownyk_ ," Irene continues in response to his prompting. A false name that would mean nothing, but precisely the type of name the man expects. " _Yes we will wait for you to finish._ "  
  
Irene sets several large bills on the counter without another word and the tailor harrumphs. He gestures to the shop, before taking the suit to the back, to finish a few last minute adjustments. Another twenty minutes, perhaps. Thirty, at most.  
  
She waits until the man is thoroughly ensconced in the back room before she speaks, in the Ukrainian the man expects. "I'm impressed," she says lightly. "He didn't look nearly as irritated as I expected by the time you came out."

 

"I acted as he expected," Sherlock responds. He turns to her, giving her a careful nod. "And you? Find anything interesting?"

 

The tailor remains out of sight, and it is the only reason Irene allows her disguise to slip, to give him a smile that is utterly Irene Adler, all challenge and mystery. "More than a few interesting things," she replies. "Care to guess?"  
  
Because he knows too, that if he'd demanded she stay away from Mycroft she would do the opposite. And if she teases at his pride with guesses, he'd deduce in response, and be _impressive_.

 

He raises an eyebrow and glances in her direction.  
  
"More than the ledger," he says. "Far more."  
  
He considers the desk ahead, its shape. "Something hidden. A notebook tucked away. No, there's room for more. A box, ticked up and aside. Something locked? You unlocked it, of course."

 

Her smile grows, becomes a pleased, unrepentant smirk. She glances at the back room, where the tailor's footsteps have increased in frequency. Nearly done.  
  
"Is that a guess from knowing what I like or an actual deduction?"  
  
The back room's door moves, and Irene smooths her expression, back to the capable, disinterested professional as the tailor returns, the suit in question wrapped up in packing paper and a heavy cardboard box. He all but shoves it at Irene, as if daring her to drop it, and Irene merely smiles politely, and heads for the door.   
  
"Coming?"

 

"Both," Sherlock responds. "I learned that more than one makes the deduction more accurate, remember?"  
  
He learned to use what people _liked_ from her.  
  
She'd remember that, of course.

 

Her smile grows as she sweeps through the door of the shop, as they leave the tailor behind to count his money. Irene doubts he'll notice the three bills that are missing from his safe: one each of the euro notes, the ruble notes, and the renminbi notes, tucked up next to the stiletto at her thigh.  
  
Only when they are both safely out does she turn back to give him a look over her shoulder, her pupils slightly dilated, as she switches back to English.  
  
"I haven't forgotten." She balances the box under one arm as she continues, "A safe, about thirty five years old, simple combination lock, easily within reach of the proprietor as he does business. Easily within reach, easily unlocked and without any additional security in place."

 

Sherlock couldn't contain his smile. It slowly spread across his face, proud and unyielding.  
  
"And the pass code was his...wife's birth date?" Sherlock hypothesizes. "Something simple, easy to remember. Not sentimental, more likely that way because he suspects that's what he's supposed to place as a combination. Either that, or the default, which would be significantly more boring."

 

Warmth slowly builds at the base of Irene's spine at his smile. It isn't a reaction to his obvious pride, that would be too ordinary, but the unmistakable pleasure of connecting to a like mind, someone who could keep up, whose brain worked like her own.  
  
"The default," she confirms. A glance shows the Aurora Hotel ahead, and a few scattered high end women's boutiques between them and the hotel. She heads for one said boutique, continuing over her shoulder. "A safe like that's easily cracked. So his worry isn't so much the legality of what he's doing, so much as to keep it out of sight."  
  
That's obvious, but then so is the question she leaves unasked, unprompted, but that remains hanging. If what the tailor had hidden wasn't _illegal_ , why did _she_ think it was interesting enough to warrant a mention?

 

"Dealings that are interesting enough for the Woman's attention," Sherlock says, keeping in step with her. "And not something he'd expect someone to recognize upon first glance."  
  
The Woman is impossible to read, so he takes a glance back to the shop, and considers the room, considers the man himself. A businessman, someone who works with men, careful men. Educated men. Not gangs, not anything of the sort. Narcotics, perhaps. The higher officials, maybe.  
  
"Our traffickers?" A guess, he''s embarrassed to admit.

 

Her own smile grows at his obvious guess, and Irene laughs, delighted, as she pushes open the door to the boutique. The shop's window displays are full of well-cut women's clothing, but the styles are not the types she favours, not understated but flattering but rather more obvious in their sexuality, with deep v-necks and high slits in the skirt.  
  
Not the Woman's clothes, in general, but the assassin's disguise of the madam's. Well made and expensive, but just a touch too loud, a touch too garish.   
  
"Try again. Remember his clientele. Wealthy businessmen who spend time traveling, who enjoy the pleasures money can buy. But who tend to be older, no longer in the prime of youth," she reminds him seconds before an enthusiastic saleswoman swoops in, offering to help.

 

"Prostitution, then," Sherlock says. "No, no, you said not illegal."  
  
He considers this as he looks at the dresses she's selecting. They remind him of louder versions of Mycroft's assistant's outfits---meant to draw attention to herself, to keep what she had hidden more hidden. It was a clever tactic, and just obvious enough that someone looking for it would expect it.  
  
The Woman _was_ brilliant. It was part of what made her attractive. Though, honestly, what she wore even now was attractive. And it was---though the tailor didn't seem to notice.  
  
The old man in the tailor shop, though. His age might've been a factor, but...

 

She smirks at his response, but there is no time to answer when the saleswoman begins to help.  
  
In the boutique, her persona changes, shifts subtly. No longer the professional assassin masquerading as the businessman's assistant, but the assassin masquerading as the madam. Her body language remains ramrod straight, fully aware of her surroundings, but her gestures are larger, broader, and her Russian is rougher, louder. What the assassin believes a madam should be.   
  
Irene allows the woman to measure her, insists on a bright red dress, its shoulders high enough to ensure mobility would not be a problem, but its neckline deep enough to show an expanse of creamy skin and decolletage. The skirt is also slitted, high enough to reveal garters, but then a flash of garter is to be expected from the madam, and allows for easy access to the hidden knife.  
  
She sweeps into the dressing room the saleswoman offers, and dons the dress, scrutinizing herself left and right, and changes back, requesting the dress be packaged up, to sit on top of the suit's box. And Irene asks for a second dress, a custom one, modified from one she saw in the window. Deep green velvet, with a higher neckline, fitted and long without a slit. This she asks for to be delivered to the Baltschug Kempinski.  
  
Another few minutes, and she returns to the storefront, pressing more of Mycroft Holmes' money into the pleased saleswoman's hand.  
  
"Seventeen minutes," she informs Sherlock as she finishes, waiting for the woman to wrap up her purchase. "Surely you've figured it out by now."

 

He hasn't. Not illegal, possibly embarrassing, potentially lucrative, and amusing to the Woman.  
  
He has absolutely no idea. He glances back to the pleased saleswoman, with her commission for the day more than earned. She untucks a bottle of aspirin, no doubt to use it as an excuse, stating she has a headache. An excellent placebo, and well effective when the saleswoman just wants to go home.  
  
"Placebos," Sherlock says, considering the possibilities. "Imported cantharidin, other sexual stimulants given to older customers to please their illegal transactions later on in their trips. Nothing _illegal_ , but imported at an extremely low rate and then sold as an expensive add-on price to the suits can be extremely lucrative."  
  
And, of course, amusing to the Woman.

 

She laughs low in her throat as she picks up the packages and shoves them into his arms. Their disguises purchased, there was still some time before they would have to be properly donned and Irene refuses to play the subservient until the last possible moment.  
  
"Lucky guess," she says with a slight nod to the saleswoman feigning a headache. "Whether or not his additional wares are genuine hardly matters. Better yet if they weren't, less expense. But I wouldn't liberate _that_ from his safe." Her smirk makes it clear that she did, in fact, take _something_ , though she of course had no plans to tell him what.

 

"I never guess," he lies. A lie she is more than aware of, of course. Still, the pretense is part of the fun.  
  
He takes the packages as she hands them to him and looks down at them as though they were the strangest, most unusual items he'd ever seen. Is she expecting him to carry them? It seems as though she is expecting him to carry them.  
  
"Right breast pocket," he guesses, immediately.

 

She doesn't bother waiting for him to figure out what to do with said packages, instead continuing on her way towards the Aurora Hotel. He would have to carry them or drop them in the street to follow.  
  
"Yours?" she dismisses, "I've had the opportunity to plant what I found but that's far too easy, to just _give_ you a puzzle like that."

 

"Planting it," Sherlock repeats. "So you didn't want to keep it. Something interesting enough to look at, to _mention_ \----"  
  
He pauses in his step, realizing with some horror that he's holding these packages and following the Woman, but he has no idea where they are. He can't even get to his mobile to look at a map and work it out. This isn't London, this isn't even Europe. He doesn't know where they're going.  
  
Panic takes him, but only for the briefest of instances. He's not in his element on this road. He'll be in his element when they're in character, ready to face down the traffickers.  
  
"The Hotel," he says, firmly.

 


	12. Battle Armour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, the Woman and the Consulting Detective put on armour to ride into battle against each other. A lifetime later, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes put on armour to face the last strand of Jim Moriarty's web.

The Royal Aurora Hotel rises ahead, its white facade an imposing edifice topped by a dark blue mansard roof. Irene stops, however, when she hears the pause in his step, and she half-turns, giving him a questioning look.  
  
She gestures ahead, to the Royal Aurora. "Not content to follow my lead, Mr. Holmes?"

 

He straightens his chin up. He's not embarrassed, not at all. But he does feel a mild sense of indignation that his moment of doubt was noticed.  
  
He isn't one to follow, but he's followed her. So often, he realizes. Together, they've followed each other. From Montenegro to America, to Hong Kong, back to London, to Nassau and San Salvador, up to Montreal----criss-crossing the planet together. And he's never _followed_ before, not like this.  
  
And he's following her again, blindly. One last time.  
  
He pulls the name of the hotel out of his mind. "The Royal Aurora."

 

"Not the Baltschug Kempinski, but it'll do for the moment," she says. She remembers where he's sent his map, where he'd offered to go after San Salvador, before he'd changed his mind for Montreal. Have they been lingering for so long, to refuse to let their holiday end? Or if they had come to Moscow then, they would merely have found another city to end their holiday?  
  
One of the doormen at the Aurora meets Irene's eye, and she gestures towards Sherlock and the packages in his arms, a near-universal gesture, and the doorman nods, propping said door open and hurrying over to take the packages from Sherlock.  
  
"It should confuse the trail, to have his credit cards used at multiple hotels within the city within hours of each other."

 

He gives up the packages easily, and steps over to the Woman, straightening his lapel. With better access to information in his pocket, he feels more comfortable. He at least can work out where he is, should she suddenly leave him.  
  
Not that, in all reality, he thinks she will. Perhaps he's simply attempting to convince himself that she might, because that was their relationship _before_. Any trust between them now was a symptom of the relationship _after_ , the one that they would be walking away from.  
  
"It hardly matters," Sherlock says. "I plan on leaving him a very definite trail once we've parted. Something to follow me, to leave you behind, to take away his focus."  
  
He sniffs, and gives a shrug. "It will make the trip back to London easier, if nothing else."  
  
Though, if he's honest, it will make everything prior to that more difficult. It hardly matters, he's long since thought it out. It will make the Woman's journey safer.

 

The doorman takes the packages, and Irene is swept into the social niceties, into the ritual of requesting a room, of payment and signing idiotic waivers and waiting for the key while the doorman and the concierge both pretend to make them comfortable, to ensure their packages are delivered to the room.  
  
It is another twelve and a half minutes before she can turn her attention away from the hotel staff and back to him, the full bore of her attention on his face, on the obvious lie in his words.  
  
"I never asked you to play the fox to your brother's bloodhound," she says, and it is a reproach, but there is a surprising lack of heat in her words. She'd never ask, because she never would, because she is fully capable of leading Mycroft Holmes' men astray. But then that is part of it too, of how they have wormed their way under each other's skins, how he has woven himself so thoroughly into the fabric of herself and her in his. She'd never ask, but then he would regardless.

 

He picks up the conversation as though they had never left it, as though he hadn't spent the previous ten minutes scanning through maps of the area they were in, and two minutes before that being bored with social niceties.  
  
"No, and probably for the best that you hadn't. You do know how I love being contrary."  
  
He steps around her this time, heading towards the lift. "It's this way to our room, isn't it?"

 

"Top floor," she confirms, collecting the room key from the concierge before following. She does not tell him which room number they are in, because even now it is a game. She forced him to follow before, and now he returns the favour. And she will again once the lift stops on the appropriate floor.  
  
The bellhop that has been given their packages has already left, no doubt taking a faster service lift to ensure their things will be waiting for them in the room. She walks into the lift behind him, and continues conversationally, "And if I asked you now to play the fox, would you insist on not just to be contrary?"

 

He presses the button and spins around, raising an eyebrow to her.  
  
"And why would you?" he demands, partially playful. "It's my brother. It'll be a revenge of his I'm very used to. There's no need to prevent me from accepting it."

 

She arches an eyebrow back, mirroring his expression. "And why shouldn't I?" she challenges playfully in return. "Perhaps I should be insulted, that you think I can't lead him on a merry chase of my own."  
  
She isn't, that much is obvious from the lack of heat in her voice, but it's important for her to ensure he knows that she sees his sentiment.

 

"You have a business to attend to, Woman."  
  
There is a gentle _ding_ as the door to the lift opens, and Sherlock takes a step backwards into it.  
  
"I wouldn't be one to allow _him_ to delay you in that, would you?"

 

She enters the lift a half step behind him; she tells herself she would have beaten him in, but his legs were too long.  
  
"At least you aren't insisting on doing this because of more idiotic reasons," she sniffs. She really would have been insulted if he'd insisted it was because of the Inconvenience. Even though that _was_ a very good reason to keep Mycroft Holmes away from her trail.  
  
She waits until the doors to the lift have closed before she continues, her voice softer, "Once we part, I won't be able to help you."  
  
The exact words he'd offered her before, and she'd accused him of fretting then. But fitting, she thinks. After all, while Mycroft Holmes would hardly revenge himself on his brother with anything as permanent as death, she'd rather Sherlock Holmes remained free from idiotic promises to the British Government as well.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. "He won't kill me, Woman," he says. "And no matter what trouble I get into, he won't let me die. I'm still his brother. He still feels the need to protect me, no matter what."  
  
He lets out a short, disappointed snort. "One day perhaps he'll actually, decisively decide to kill me. _That_ would be an impressive day." He offers the Woman a small smile. "I'll call on you then, shall I? To help me?"  
  
It would never happen, though. Mycroft would turn the planet over to save Sherlock. He wouldn't even let Sherlock go on a mission if he thought it meant he'd die in the end. Still, something to muse over.

 

The smile she reciprocates with is equally small as she leans against the lift's wall. The momentary ability to take weight off her feet is welcome, staving off any potential twinges in her leg from the still-healing bullet wound from San Salvador.

She wonders how many more months she'll have before she'll have to give up the heels again. Before changes to her body and her center of gravity forces her feet back to earth, at least temporarily.

"You'd be better off not getting to that point," she answers. "I'll never let you forget it if you ever need to be rescued."

She doesn't tell him she will, but then she doesn't have to.

 

"He won't, not with me," Sherlock responds. "With you, however..."  
  
He gives a slight shrug. He knows Mycroft would work to spare Sherlock's feelings by keeping the Woman's assassination a secret, of course, but there's not a lot of doubt that with his resources, he'd manage to kill her. It would be an excellent chase, though. Not worth the damage, but an excellent chase.  
  
He'd miss her, if she died. More than miss her. More than Montreal, more than when he thought his whole chest was empty. Now, after all of this, he doesn't know what he would feel if she were to die. He would have to kill Mycroft, of course. He's often thought that somehow he would end up killing Mycroft, though, so that's not shocking. But the Woman, losing her. That would...it would be...the word _devastating_ comes to mind, but it's too mild, really.  
  
"It's for the best that we're ending, soon," he says, primarily for himself. "I imagine this holiday was going to get boring, soon enough."

 

"You've said that before." Irene does not look at him, instead keeping her attention on the elevator, watching the indicator lights tick upward.  
  
His mention of Mycroft, the implications of the elder Holmes' lack of reluctance in killing her, tugs at Irene's thoughts, and she wonders idly if the knowledge of the Inconvenience would keep her safe. The fact that Mycroft had admitted as much in San Salvador, that he had no doubt of Irene's ability to make any attempt on her life _messy_ enough to draw Sherlock's attention was small comfort...  
  
She dismisses the idea of using the Inconvenience's existence now, it is too early, it would give the elder Holmes too much leverage. In years, perhaps, if necessary. But his seemingly idle conversation makes her consider putting certain safeguards in place, things left with Sibyl, instructions and the like, for such an eventuality.  
  
The elevator slows, dings quietly to announce its arrival on the top floor. Irene heads for the opening door first, adding over her shoulder, "If you were anyone else, Mr. Holmes, I'd say you were trying to convince yourself."

 

Attempting to state that this was not the case would only give what she said some validation. Not saying anything implies the incorrect nature of her words. He simply follows, convincing himself with every fiber of his mind that he isn't trying to do just that.  
  
"I have no reason to convince you," he says, offhandedly. "Why are we here again?"

 

He follows, and Irene makes her way unerringly to the last door along the corridor, the corner room. It was hardly necessary, given how little time they expected to spend here, but it was Mycroft Holmes' expense, another way to tweak the British Government's nose while ensuring he continued to think of their behaviour as utterly childish.  
  
"I don't need convincing," she retorts, opening the door. The cream-coloured carpets in the room softened the sound of the opening door, the pile thick and plush. The room was decorated in gold and cream, and despite herself Irene is reminded a little of the house in Belgravia. Fitting, perhaps.  
  
She enters the room fully and runs a hand through her hair. "Your last chance to take down a piece of Jim's web," she reminds him. The last time they would together, she doesn't say. Wouldn't say. It would be too sentimental to. "I won't don a sloppy disguise in some cramped boutique dressing room. And your brother could use another false trail."  
  
She doesn't say that she wants to linger, she wants a few more hours, another day. She doesn't have to. She doesn't look at him, doesn't wait for him to close the door, instead unzipping the dress she wears, still rumpled from their tryst in first class, and sheds it like a snake skin in the middle of the room as she heads for the washroom.

 

He shuts the door as she departs for the washroom, and turns back to find her clothing in a pile on the floor. It still smells like her, like her perfume and the smell of the city outside, and recent sex. Seduction, the city life, and sex. It's very _her_ , he thinks.  
  
Is this what they'll do by the end of the day? Shed their disguises and part, without a word, without a glance behind? Her, to her new life at the center of Jim's web? He, to the distraction he's set up for Mycroft outside of Serbia? Will they leave their sentiment in a pile behind themselves, still reminiscent of everything they are, but never to be thought of again?  
  
He steps cautiously over her clothing and goes to the bed, where he casually tosses off his own. He has a disguise of his own, a new life to pretend he's lived for the next few hours. He'll need a shower---on his own, and a time to shed himself of Sherlock Holmes.

 

She steps under the spray of the shower without a word, though she doesn't bother closing the washroom door. It is an illusion of privacy, after all; a door is hardly going to keep him out if he had something to say, but she expected he would not.  
  
Irene let the hot water cascade over her, drenching her hair, coursing over her body, her skin sensitive as the shower washes over her. She is methodical as she works shampoo into her hair, lathers a washcloth with soap, as if she can scrub sentiment away, as if she can cleanse the knowledge of the fast approaching end to their holiday from her skin with little more than soap and water.  
  
She laughs, harsh and scathing, at herself at the very idea, as if he had not already worked his way thoroughly under her skin, as if the product of their liaison, the proof of their mutual sentiment, were not already growing within her, cells dividing, multiplying. She lets the falling water swallow the laugh, turns her face to the spray. She will not do something as stupidly sentimental as _weep_ , she reminds herself sternly, rinsing soap and shampoo from her body, watching the bubbles and the lather circle their way down the drain.  
  
She stands there, scoured clean and skin flushed pink and raw, for a very long moment, before she turns off the water, before she steps out of the shower and let her feet rest on cold tile. She wraps a towel around her body, another around her hair, and steps back into the hotel room, picking up the discarded dress as she does.  
  
"You know your brother better than I do," she says, shaking out the dress and taking it to the empty wardrobe. It is not her wont to clean up after herself, to put away the shed clothing, the discarded tools, but it seems important, this once. "How long would it take him to find us in Moscow?"  
  
How long could they have left.

 

Sherlock's hair is wild over his head, and he has out a knife, plucking at the buttons of his former dress shirt, tearing at the seams of what he'd been wearing only moments ago. Not necessarily peeling at the sentiment there, not pulling it out. It's not sentiment, not really. Not anything like that at all. Just creating another disguise. His hair hasn't been cut in a while, and while it's ruffled this way, its length shows.  
  
"The bus I'll be taking leaves at 9 tomorrow evening," he says. He refuses to look up from his work, from tailoring the outfit he will wear when he leaves her. "We won't have time to linger."  
  
Not that _that_ is what she was asking, of course. Because neither of them wanted---lingering isn't---  
  
He puts the knife down abruptly.  
  
"Shower free?"

 

It shouldn't surprise her that he has already arranged his transportation away from Moscow.  
  
Perhaps because she has not, that she had not wanted to consider it, that her plan had been to walk away from him at some point in the next day, perhaps two, and only _then_ book her flight, only then buy a ticket away from Moscow. To Sydney, perhaps. And have Sibyl join her there.  
  
It shouldn't surprise her, but it does.  
  
A wry smile twists her mouth at her own realization, and Irene nods towards the shower, the gesture tugging the towel wrapped around her body downward, and she tugs it back up. "Of course."  
  
She does not bother looking at him as she turns to the wardrobe, as she hangs up the dress. "I had a few things delivered to the Baltschug Kempinski. I'll pick them up at the front desk and leave you to your ride."

 

"You'll want the map," he says as he steps towards the shower. "I'll need to be the one to retrieve it. And I'll give you the cipher, unless you'd prefer the challenge yourself."  
  
He turns on the shower and steps under the spray. He should darken his hair once more before returning to London, he thinks. Perhaps after Mycroft's found him.  
  
He won't cry over this. He won't feel the need to write sentimental music, or even think on it. He simply won't allow himself the need to muse over it. He just won't.  
  
He lathers his hair, and considers how he'll style it. He doesn't want to cut it, not for the outfit he's going to fashion for tomorrow. No, he'll slick it back, give it the look of a gentleman trying to be edgier than he is.

 

The sound of the shower running again keeps Irene from having to answer immediately, keeps her from having to decide whether she is offended that he would deign to _give_ her the cipher or simply admit she needed every advantage she could have before she took her place in Moriarty's web.

Without him in the room, Irene sheds the towel, opens the package containing the dress and undergarments. She lays them out for a moment on the bed, considers them for what they are, for the assassin's disguise and not for Irene Adler's misplaced sentimentality.

She slips on the undergarments, considers the stiletto and the garters. The madam is obvious, she is flagrant and gauche enough to hide her weapon in her cleavage, but the assassin is not. The assassin is a professional, one who would not risk her trademark weapon for looks. It would be the perfect clue, the subtle hint that the madam and her investor were not as they seemed. Not that their mark ( _his_ mark, she reminds herself) would notice.

She slides the garter high on her thigh, and runs a finger along the silver and mother-of-pearl inlaid handle of the stiletto knife. She had not considered the knife as anything worth keeping, still doesn't, not for herself, but she cannot help but wonder what would happen if it found its way onto his person before she left Moscow.

Would the knife find its way into some criminal's things, planted to implicate him in the murder? Would it end up in Mycroft Holmes' back some years down the line? Or would it end up in a drawer in Baker Street, next to a useless mobile, empty of all its secrets except for that of its presence?

It's hardly worth thinking of, a useless what-if. Irene tucks the knife into her garter, ensuring it stays snug against her leg, and draws on the madam's red dress. She scrutinizes her quavery reflection in the window, and unwinds her hair from the towel. The madam is unrestrained, her hair would have to be as well, despite Irene's own preference.

She will need the hair dryer. She heads for the washroom, hesitating for a heartbeat as she feels the steam of the shower against her face, and stomps down on the hesitation. There was nothing to hesitate about, this was simply another mark, one more in a long line of their holiday. Nothing more.

She enters and reaches for the drawer under the sink to take the dryer out, to complete her disguise.

 

He turns off the shower and steps out, reaching immediately for the towel to dry his hair. There's no point in covering himself when he steps out, just as the Woman saw no need to wait before undressing. They know each other, and intimately. She's waiting outside, with the hair dryer for her hair.  
  
There's a small bottle of hair pomade on the sink, complements of the hotel, as well. He can use that for his disguise.  
  
He dries his hair with the towel, and reaches for the hair product, musing quietly on how almost but not quite domestic this situation is. It is so _very_ close to domestic. As they were, many times, so very close to Sydney. Were he a man to muse more on the things that might've been, he might've allowed himself to wonder what could have happened had they decided to give up their lives, to remain dead forever. But he isn't a man to do that, and they only have a matter of hours left.  
  
He still needs cologne. He considers stealing it from a nearby shop, but the thought is only brief. They have the money they need.  
  
"Since meeting with you on this holiday, Woman, I don't think I've _purchased_ quite so many things for this expedition before," he mutters.

 

The motions of using the hair dryer, of teasing her hair into loose, large waves, are strangely soothing. Another disguise, another mark. It settles her enough that she merely smirks, a familiar quirk of the lips upward at his answer.  
  
"From petty theft to sustained fraud?" she asks, turning off the air dryer and setting it aside. She runs a hand through her hair, tossing it about as she scrutinizes the effect on her reflection. She frowns at the mirror; she dislikes her hair loose like this, it is uncontrolled, unrestrained.  
  
And the stray memory comes to her, of a room like this one, in Montreal, of a playing violin, and a thought: _I like it down_.  
  
She shakes her head, dark hair falling back down her back, and adds over her shoulder, "Must be that cancerous influence of mine."

 

"Mmmm," he agrees, running the comb through his hair a few times, slicking the longer curls into something hard, controlled. "Eating at the controlled collagen of corruption I've developed these last few years."  
  
It will be good to be back in Baker Street. To be Sherlock Holmes again, openly and completely. To wear his coat out and see the people who he would never admit to have missed. To live with John, to have their odd domesticity. Which they would, of course. No other person in his life would change that, no matter how happy they looked in the photographs back in London.  
  
But there was this. And the way her hair smelled, warmed by the dryer, fluffed into waves by her fingers. A natural look that was---  
  
He deified her too much. She would tell him the same, if she could see in his mind.

 

He slicks his hair back as she leaves hers loose, and there is something to that, something _fitting_ that for once they are so very much unlike themselves. But Irene refuses to dwell too long on that, lest she become dreadfully sentimental.  
  
She briefly considers blaming the sentiment on whatever hormonal imbalances pregnant women are supposed to experience, but it is too easy, too obvious, too clearly _human_ a weakness for her to want, to admit to. So she does not, and simply chuckles in wry self-deprecation.  
  
She would prefer to be Athena or Galatea than to be human. To be the untouchable goddess, the marble statue on a pedestal, than to be so painfully obviously human.  
  
"Fortunately, you have an excellent doctor."  
  
She walks out of the washroom again, gesturing to the bed where his suit remained, and sweeps over to the windows again, staring out over the city. A few hours. Enough time, certainly, to murder one man.  
  
She reminds herself that it is all that's necessary. To let him have one more thread of Moriarty's web, and then she will disappear, with his map and his cipher, and he will return to Baker Street.  
  
"The smuggler, your human trafficker," she says, drawing her fingers along the glass of the window, tracing her own invisible web. "I don't think you ever told me his name."

 

"Nicolai Utkin," Sherlock replies, following behind her. He reaches for his own suit and begins preparing his ensemble. "They call him 'The Paddler", which I assume could be because of his strict demeanor."  
  
He slowly buttons up his shirt and turns, watching the Woman's hands draw out lines along the window that looks out into the cold Russian night. He thinks of her fingertips on his back and arms and wonders if he feels equally cold to her.  
  
"Or, perhaps, it's because of his favored torture device, flattening and bludgeoning his victims, no matter the age or temperament."  
  
He picks up the tie and slides it around his neck.  
  
"Or, it could simply be because his last name means _duck_. Difficult to tell."

 

"The Paddler," she repeats, her voice dripping with scorn. Her nails run along the smooth glass, and she sneers at Moscow laid out before her before turning back to face him, to watch him put on the pieces of his disguise.  
  
Her attention does not waver from him as she watches him slip on the tie, her gaze seeing every wrinkle of fabric, every crease. She wonders if she is reading him now, reading hesitance in his hands as he does up his disguise, if she is reading sentiment in him, a desire to _linger_. Or if she is simply projecting. Fitting what she sees to what she wants to believe.  
  
Likely the latter.  
  
"I doubt I'd be able to stand having a man working for me with that ridiculous of a name. Just as well that he won't be."

 

"You know I consider crime an art, Woman," Sherlock says, carefully looping the tie into a complicated double knot. "There aren't many things I consider completely despicable or utterly unspeakable, but---this man has a list of them. And with his preferred cargo, I imagine you're clever enough to work them out."  
  
Killing the man would be almost too good for him, but Sherlock is too aware that he wouldn't spend long in prison before his contacts would release him. The Woman would work out a way to undo what had been done in this part of the world.  
  
During her new life.

 

A small smile pulls at the corner of her mouth as the intricate knot takes form under his hands, as his actions belie the fact that the Consulting Detective did not wear ties, but that Sherlock Holmes knew how to tie a sharp knot.

"You said something similar once about a man in San Salvador," she reminds him as she crosses the room. The madam's red dress clings to her as she moves, and the high slit reveals a flash of pale leg with every step. It is more obvious, less refined than her own aesthetic, but she wears it like a second skin, a disguise drawn tight around herself like a coat. Or armour.

She stops in front of him, and reaches up to center the tie at his throat, the small smile turning teasing with an arching quirk of the eyebrow.

"And that was _personal_ concern. Should I be suspicious of this time as well?"

 

"Tayo Osesina's obsession with brunette British women was almost _uncanny_ ," Sherlock says, lowering his hands to allow her to center his knot. "Related back to an old girlfriend or a tourist of some sort...I have no interest in that psychology."  
  
He gives a slight head shake at her question. "Nicholai Utkin, however----you're too old to be one of his standard victims."  
  
He imagines he doesn't need to explain more. Crime webs can be exotic, and crime webs can be intriguing, but in many cases, Sherlock genuinely believes laws exist for a reason, and certain people who break them are _disgusting_ , rather than merely entertainment.

 

"It wasn't a girlfriend," she corrects idly, running her fingers under the tie beneath his collar to ensure it laid flat. The businessman with his controlled structured hair and expensive suit would not tolerate a single strand out of place, or a twist in his tie. "He liked to cause pain, but that wasn't the only part of it. A formative rejection was more likely. Not that it matters."

He is warm beneath her hand, body and shower heat radiating through the stiff, fine cloth, utterly unlike the glass pane she had traced an imaginary web along earlier, cold and unyielding. The way they both preferred to be.

She takes a step back, though her hands remain lingering against him, ostensibly to finish straightening the tie, and she frowns, a small furrow drawing her brows together.

"I'm not Jim Moriarty. I told you once that I prefer willing participants," she says, her words quiet, deliberate. "But I'm not Sherlock Holmes either. I don't care what they do as long as they don't interfere with my plans. I will only clean house when it suits _me_ , and not for your law-biding friends."

Except this once. This once she considers a parting gift. Not that she'd admit it.

 

"We both know I'm not one of the angels," Sherlock says, taking a step towards her, allowing her hand to move up his chest, should she want it. "But I am on their side. Which means stopping certain activities."  
  
Some, he doesn't care about. Murder, meh. Theft? Hardly his area. Perhaps he and she can step into investigations during future holidays. But this---this sort of crime. This is the kind that an angel would walk into, that one would _stop_.  
  
"You understand, of course."

 

She pushes and he pulls back. She pulls away and he pushes.  
  
There is no other way for them to be.  
  
Her hand slides up his chest as he steps towards her, into her space, and she does not pull away. A satisfied look crosses her face, eases the furrow in her brow as she looks up at him, refusing to be cowed by him.  
  
"Good." No, she will not be cowed by him, nor will she let him and _sentiment_ dictate her life after this. She takes a small deliberate step to meet him, her hand still resting on his chest, the pretext of straightening the tie somewhere between forgotten and rendered irrelevant. "I won't make it easy for you to stop anything of mine."

 

Irrelevant, yes. But not forgotten. Like any mystery he hunts in her territory would be. Oh, he'd hunt for the angels, as he's supposed to do, but he'd be lying if he said it was all for them. Even he knows this. He'd hunt for himself, too, for the _chase_ , for the holidays in between holidays. For the look on her face when he ruined some plan.  
  
He leans in, the temptation of her mouth there, just there. So close to his. A memory of the past holiday, and the potential of what they could have, all lingering only inches away. He leans forward, and deftly steps aside.  
  
"Excellent, I prefer it when we understand each other." He moves towards the bed. "Where did I put my coat?"  
  
Can't make everything too simple between them.

 


	13. An Elevator Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief, uneventful stop in the Hotel Aurora allows Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes to don their last disguises, but even the very soul of professionalism cannot keep them from being utterly themselves.

He steps aside, and Irene does the same, moving away from the bed as smoothly as if they were dancing. And perhaps, in a sense, they are. Dancing around each other, around the soon-to-be-past and the potential future and everything else in between.  
  
Her hand falls to her side as she sidesteps him to pick up her shoes again, the mid-height heels that only cause her leg a twinge of protest if she moves too quickly.  
  
"Exactly where the tailor left it, in the box," she replies, stepping into said heels. She checks the package the dress had come in, and fishes out the saleswoman's lipstick, which she had palmed earlier, and lines her lips with it. A shade too bright, too garish for Irene Adler, but exactly what one would expect from a madam visiting the human trafficker looking for new wares.  
  
She looks into the mirror and takes a slow, deep breath, squaring her shoulders and reminding herself of the role she is to play. The hired assassin with her steady hands and steadier nerves, all bought loyalty and quick appraising eyes, disguising herself as a brash, bold madam looking for children for her new business with a new investor. The assassin's stance does not change, but Irene twists her expression subtly, eyes wider, her gaze sweeping lazier, her gestures wider, but the smiles are all in the mouth, none of them reach her eyes, still wary and watchful.  
  
She turns away from the mirror and her voice is a shade too loud, full of false intimacy and lazy vowels, her Russian free of the Ukrainian accent but her diction is precisely sloppy, with a touch of something Germanic in her words. "I hope you're ready for business, dear heart."

 

He picks up the coat. It suits the investor, the one that he's playing---the one just intelligent enough to hire an assassin, but not intelligent enough to realize just her level, and just what she means to the rest of his deal. Her disguise is far more interesting.  
  
He turns, and has just enough time to watch the Woman _change_. It's the way her eyes widen, it's the way her lips move. It's the way her jawline seems to almost shift forward with Germanic wording and a stiffer, crueler lifestyle. Although she has the face of Irene Adler, someone in London who knew her would walk past her, now. She bears nothing else of the Woman from before.  
  
"I could have you right now when you do that," he admits, shrugging himself into the coat.

 

Despite herself, Irene feels a knot of fierce pride take root within her at his response. It is more than simple pride at impressing Sherlock Holmes, but something deeper, the knowledge that he sees not simply the disguise she projects but the layers beneath it, the intricacies.

She does not relax the assassin's poise, does not change the madam's Germanic inflection, but her gaze is intense and full of promise and challenge and pride when she meets his, and a familiar smirk dances along the corner of her mouth as she heads for the door.

"Be impressive enough in dealing with our mark and I might let you."

 

He cracks his neck, and straightens his back. With a lowering of his shoulders, he tries to age himself a little, to give himself the older, more exhausted weight of a man who was running businesses that were cruel and cold, the sort that aged people prematurely when they were even slightly tenderhearted. Giving his character a weakness, one that was visible and plausible.  
  
"Sounds like I have a lot to work for," he says. His accent is American again, a call back to their time in San Salvador. He can make his Russian sound American, too, which would be convenient.  
  
He reaches into his coat and untucked a small, ivory-handled gun. It is flashy, expensive, _obnoxious._ The kind of weapon that is effective, but owned by someone who doesn't truly know how to handle a gun. It is a perfect cover for his character.  
  
"I don't think I know your name, darlin'," he calls to her before she reaches the door.

 

She stops, her fingers on the doorknob, and turns in response. She nods, approving, when she sees him, see how he holds himself, with the weariness of a man whose conscience had been bruised by his business dealings.  
  
"You paid the bill, sir," she answers in the assassin's crisp German, then switches back to the madam's Russian. "You can call me whatever you like until the next one is due."

 

"Christian, please," Sherlock responds. "Christian Lafayette, that's who they'll be expecting. You'll need a name, an alias for the madame. Something ordinary, but what they might expect for a woman of your intellect. Elaine, or Martha, perhaps."  
  
He takes a step towards her, considering the character, considering his own.  
  
"I'd have had to have found you. To know you by another name, even if it were a code name." A smirk slides across his face. "One of our goddesses?"

 

She looks distasteful at his suggestions, at names that are too old-fashioned for the madam. Even if they were her real name, the madam would have chosen something else, something younger, less stodgy to her mind.  
  
When he suggested the code name, however, the look of distaste becomes a pleased smile. "Very good," she says approvingly, the hint of German growing stronger in her voice as she opens the door, steps outside, the consummate professional, casing the hallway before her employer would exit. "But not Athena. Putting the idea of strategic warfare into a client's mind would let them suspect betrayal. Galatea is far more benign. A pretty face, nothing more."

 

The distasteful look at his suggestions is met with a set of raised eyebrows. Not a man used to being questioned, and one privately eager to please this surprisingly beautiful and exotic creature that he's hired. Not so old-fashioned a name, then. Perhaps he'll think up something better on the drive.  
  
"No childhood, no past," Sherlock agrees, with approval. "Christian wouldn't understand the reference, either."  
  
He steps out and moves to offer his arm before lowering it. A desire to not be professional, overstated by a desire to be safe. A man with his flaws on his sleeve, but enough common sense to pull them back before they get him killed.

 

The need to balance the disguise of the assassin with that of the assassin playing the madam with the very real words being spoken by Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes is not impossible, but it is difficult enough to be a challenge, and it is absolutely _brilliant_. Irene raises a hand, professional, presumptive, as he offers his arm and hesitates, the gesture purely that of the assassin, reminding her employer of something they have no doubt spoken of before. That he is not to step out until she has cleared the area.  
  
A small smile, an almost imperceptible tug at the corner of her mouth, something that the assassin offers her employer, as if she is pleased by his blurring the line of being professional, but without encouraging more unsafe behaviour.  
  
Irene looks from one end of the hall to the other, her hand reaching for the blade at her thigh, as if reassuring herself it is still there, before she nods and steps out fully, lowering the arm holding him back.  
  
"Utkin will be expecting us shortly," she says, all business, the German heavier in her voice again. "You should reconsider the gun. It's one more weapon to keep track of."

 

"No, no, it's presumptuous nature is very American," Sherlock says, his words his own even as his gait and his accent belongs to Christian Lafayette. "You would know, you've spent far more time there."  
  
He straightens his tie, brushes his coat sleeves, and steadies himself as he steps forward when she instructs.  
  
"I'm going to need a new mobile," he adds. "One final touch. This disposable isn't suited."

 

"It is one of the things that make Americans so useful," she agrees, timing her steps so that he is never more than arm's reach behind her. The assassin would insist he were never that far away, of course, so that he can be pushed aside out of the line of fire at a moment's notice if necessary. "But dreadfully irritating after a while."  
  
She checks her own mobile, considers the time. "The concierge at the desk has a rather ostentatious one that would suit," she says casually. "Too rich for her job, of course, but that's what a wealthy boyfriend in the middle of a divorce and a mid-life crisis is for."

 

Sherlock smirks a little at that. The smirk is entirely his own, and not at all appropriate for Christian Lafayette. No, Christian has two modes: The smile of success, and the straight-faced thought of his own indecencies. He has affections and some amusements, but nothing as coy as a smirk. No, the smirk has to go.  
  
"I'll pick it, if you can get us a car called," he says. "We need something legitimate, they will be checking."  
  
Although the idea of stealing a car does appeal to Sherlock. Maybe---future holidays. So he has something to look forward to. What a silly idea, allowing himself to _look forward_ to a holiday. He'll become like the ordinary people in London, yet.

 

She watches him out of the corner of her eye, watches the smirk play across his mouth at odds with the businessman Christian persona, watches as he realizes this and banishes the smirk. She leans over and pushes the button to call for the lift, her attention seemingly on the display above the lift that shows that the lift is ascending from the 3rd floor.  
  
"The hireling arranging a car for her employer? We'll be the very soul of legitimacy," she answers. The elevator ticks up quickly, and Irene continues. "It won't take very long with the concierge, of course. You'll need a light touch."  
  
And that too, is a challenge, one that is purely Irene Adler, even as the assassin raises her hand to forestall his movement as the lift arrives, and the doors open.

 

He pauses as instructed.  
  
"I seem to remember learning a gentle touch," he replies. The lift is empty as it opens, but he waits for the indication to step forward.  
  
Both the employer and the submissive at the same time. Plus himself, hidden under there, combating the Woman with words.

A challenge, indeed.

 

Lifts are a challenge for the assassin, and Irene allows herself a touch of hesitation as she leans in the open space. Does the assassin gesture her client into the lift first, to defend against anyone who might appear in the corridor but at the same time put him into a potentially isolating space? Or does she enter first, to ensure it is perfectly safe, and thus risk separating herself from him should the doors close suddenly?  
  
She checks the ceiling as well, after all, her assassin is professional and skilled, cognisant of all three dimensions from which a threat could appear despite the seemingly harmless code name of Galatea. Instead of lowering her hand and gesturing him in, Irene instead takes his elbow, the assassin's compromise that plays into her employer's desires and tugs him firmly into the lift.  
  
"Hm, you might make a scene with that sort of gentle touch," she replies, lowering her voice enough that she can drop the accent, that her words are fully Irene Adler's, full of wicked amusement.

 

With her words her own, as the lift shuts he allows himself another smirk, that facial expression that belongs to him but not to his character.  
  
"Would I?" Sherlock intones, slipping out of his accent, as well. Just for a moment.  
  
He moves his had down her thigh, gently touching the fabric-covered skin, imagining nerve endings and muscle fiber hidden under skin and under layers of dress. Just a gentle touch.

 

The lift's doors close, ensconcing them in a temporary bubble of privacy, an opportunity to shed the multiple disguises for a smattering of heartbeats, for the time it takes to descend. Irene's smile is purely her own, much as his smirk was his, at the touch of his hand light against her thigh.  
  
She gives him a sidelong look, and she has no doubt that her pupils are dilated enough for him to notice, and that he would know that it was not simply the touch of his hand that caused it, but the game they were playing, the dance of letting themselves peek out through the multiple disguises.  
  
"Mmm, that would definitely make a scene," she purrs, leaning back against him, turning her head so that her lips brushed against his jaw. "Sherlock Holmes would enjoy it, but I doubt Christian Lafayette would."

 

"He only enjoys his own ill-gotten wealth and his imaginary love affair with the assassin he's hired," Sherlock replies.  
  
His fingers move deftly along her thigh, to hopefully pick the knife from its holder without her noticing. It would take a lot of skill, practice and finesse, all of which he did have. It would also take a little luck, which he could never tell with the Woman.  
  
He takes in a little breath of air at her lips brushing against his jaw, and his eyes are just as dilated as hers.

 

His fingers trace along her thigh, and Irene is reminded of the last time (was it only hours ago?) when his hands and mouth had traced along that same path, after his unexpected seduction of the flight attendant to drug his brother's wa--  
  
Irene's eyes narrow despite her pupils' dilated state, and her hand traces along his arm, her fingers ghosting over his pulse point as she sets her hand on top of his, stilling his light lingering touch a centimeter away from the stiletto at her thigh.  
  
"She'll be relieved it's only imaginary," she purrs back, "Our businessman hardly seems the imaginative type. Unlike others I could name."

 

"Would you? Name them?"  
  
It's better that she stops him. Because she's one of the only people in the world who would, who would realize before his fingers had purchase on what he wanted. He'll acquire the mobile he needs with no difficulty whatsoever. And they'll stop their mark, defeat him easily.  
  
Why does it feel, to him, almost like they're wasting time? Time they could spend---  
  
The lift shifts as it lands on the ground floor, and he turns, regret flooding him as he resumes the businessman's persona.

 

The lift slows as it reaches the ground floor, and Irene allows herself only a sigh of regret before she slips on her disguise again, once more the professional assassin, the competent bodyguard. She steps away from him, putting a decorous, professional distance between them again, but her fingers linger against his hand until the doors of the lift slide open.  
  
"I'll arrange for the car then," she says in efficient Russian, still touched with the hint of something Germanic, as she steps out of the elevator first, breaking the contact of her fingers against his wrist, warm beneath her fingertips, and sweeping her eyes around the lobby. She looks back at him, her pupils still dilated as her eyes linger, sweeping over him lingering on his hands, and added, "It won't take long."

 

"Mhmm," he agrees, the distracted, but competent businessman again. "Yes, that'll be good. I have a question for the concierge." His own Russian is nearly flawless, apart from the occasional burst of American, hinted at the edges of vowels. A man educated with the American system, but learning the trade from years in the country.  
  
Enough to keep them guessing, at the very least.  
  
The mobile in question is kept in the woman's left back pocket. Easily acquired, just a little diversion required.

 

The concierge stands at her desk, her too-high heels pinching her toes judging by the way she rests her elbows on her desk when she thinks no one is looking. Her expression is fixed in a polite smile, but the set of her shoulders marks her as dreadfully bored. That much is obvious from a single look at her, and as Irene steps out of the elevator, she considers the woman some more. The way her pantsuit is tailored, professional but form-fitting, showing the shape of her mobile in her back left pocket. The way her eyes follow each person that crosses the lobby, none of whom acknowledge her.  
  
It takes twenty three seconds to cross the lobby to the concierge's desk, but it only takes Irene seventeen seconds to figure out what the woman likes, what she _craves_. The hired assassin turned bodyguard's persona remains like a glove, watchful and aware, but as Irene approaches the woman, she smiles warmly, meeting the woman's eye.  
  
She is friendly, careful to keep her attention on the concierge as she chatters about the weather, asking the concierge's opinions on the weather, on her favourite places to eat, on nightclubs in the city. Topics the concierge is well-versed in, but every suggestion the concierge names, Irene considers and requests the concierge's opinion. It is subtle flattery, feeding the woman's desire for attention that she thought would be easy to gain in a luxury hotel, not realizing that those who afforded such places also cared little for those that worked in such places.  
  
" _Jet Set and Icon?_ " Irene repeats after the concierge rattles off the names of two clubs enthusiastically, the woman no longer leaning against her desk, her discomfort momentarily forgotten. " _Do they have good music? Don't you hate it when the music is nothing but screaming or beats? It is difficult to dance to, is it not?_ "

 

The Woman poses as distraction. Sherlock can pick a pocket as easily as anyone, and he would almost see the Woman's presence as insulting, if it weren't so fascinating to watch her work, to watch the way she moves into a situation, the way she finds the notch she fits in and finds what the people around her _like_.  
  
She's amazing that way. And _amazing_ is not a word that Sherlock Holmes uses lightly.  
  
He clears his own mobile of all traces, weighs it, and finds it will be lacking in comparison to the mobile in the concierge's pocket. He opens it and slips a few coins into the battery slot, weighs it again, and steps forward.  
  
The busy--too busy for this nonsense---businessman steps in.  
  
" _Can I get assistance?_ " he snaps, stepping in between them. His left hand moves to the concierge's back pocket, replacing one phone for the other in a quick motion.  
  
" _Or is this conversation too important?_ "

 

Irene allows a quick flicker of annoyance to cross her face, before she steps back from the desk, professional but with just enough regret that the concierge would feel cheated by the lack of her attention. " _The car, please_ ," she says to the young woman, who stammers and turns her attention to Sherlock, to the demanding businessman just like every other demanding businessman who comes through the lobby.  
  
" _Can I help you, sir?_ " the concierge asks politely even as she takes Irene request first, calling on her desk phone for the hotel's car service to pull up, forcing Sherlock to wait even as she acknowledges his demand.  
  
Irene takes another step back, a small, pleased smile on her lips, knowing precisely how much it would irk him that her request takes precedence.

 

Honestly? The Woman's request went first? Was he not demanding enough? Annoyingly irritable enough? It didn't _really_ matter, he had the phone he needed, but still. He also didn't have the willpower in him to hold back the annoyance from his face as he works out a reason for the concierge to pay him attention.  
  
A complaint about the bedding upstairs, that the room wasn't prepared to his liking. Something that is absolutely not the concierge's job, which is really annoying enough and therefore repayment for the fact that she took the Woman's request over his.  
  
With that, he steps towards the door in sharp, confident steps. Successful with the phone, ready to begin their plan.


	14. A Mutual Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the fate of Moriarty's web in Irene Adler's hands, Sherlock Holmes briefly wonders if the Woman's destructiveness is any better than Moriarty's madness.

He takes long, confident strides towards the door, steps that force Irene to quicken her own steps to catch up, to remain in her role as the bodyguard assassin even as she plays the madam. But catch up she does, and as she does she lowers her voice, returning to English, to Irene Adler's voice even as they wait outside the lobby for the sleek towncar to pull up.  
  
"Your steps are inches longer than normal, and at least a half second quicker," she murmurs quietly, not bothering to keep the amusement out of her words. "I'd say you're irritated, Mr. Holmes."

 

"I thought I was demanding enough," he replies. "Maybe I need to work on my American accent just a touch more."  
  
Americans are usually serviced first, because they are known as being impatient, culturally.  
  
Her amusement doesn't bode well for his temper, though. She can be insufferably smug (not that he's one to speak, of course.)  
  
"Car booked, mobile ready, personalities in place. What else are we missing?"

 

"Being demanding isn't the only way to attract attention," she retorts, the same smile still tugging at her mouth as she comes to a stop next to him on the curb, a step in front of him as if to assess threats, to intercept any newcomers. "You made a mistake playing to her profession. I gave her the attention she _wanted_ , you reminded her of her job's disappointments. Of course she was more inclined to fulfill my request first."  
  
She does not bother hiding her pleasure at this, and in fact perhaps is giving him more information than would strictly be necessary, simply because she enjoys showing off. "As to your question, an address of where our mark conducts his business. Men like that favour nightclubs, places where they can control access and show off their wares in full view. The concierge's list should provide a believable enough cover for wherever we're headed."

 

He gives her a brief nod. "Be seen before our meeting," he says. "Be noticed."  
  
It's a good idea, not that he'll tell her this. Accepting it is enough. He's already admitted that she beat him when it came to the concierge, he won't admit that she has a good idea here.  
  
A question has been bubbling in his mind, and he lets it out with the quiet force of a kettle releasing pent-up steam.  
  
"Where do you draw the line?" he demands.

 

The car has yet to arrive, despite the concierge's quick work, there was still a driver to be roused, to be made presentable, to navigate the car from its garage. But Irene does not particularly mind. The sooner they arrive, the sooner their plan is put into motion, the sooner _this_ is over.  
  
Not that she would admit it, not to him.  
  
The question, however, makes her turn, makes her arch a quizzical eyebrow. "Knowing which boundaries can and cannot be crossed was my line of work," she says blandly. "But you'll have to be more specific on what lines are on your mind."

 

"With what you'll allow in your web," he says. "Neither of us are on the sides of the angels, Woman, but what do you allow?"  
  
Will she send him clues as to what she wants eliminated if something's gone too far? Will he act as a loyal puppy, following after those clues---of course not, he tells himself. He wouldn't do that. His personal pride is worth far too much to him.  
  
"The things Moriarty allowed---"

 

Her lips thin as she considers his question. There is a part of her, a part of her that keeps her secrets, that wraps the dominatrix's armour around herself cold and implacable, that thinks she should not answer. That part of her that reminds her that this liaison, this holiday, this _attachment_ is a weakness and a danger, that part of her tells Irene that it is none of his business who she takes into her web.  
  
And there is a part of her who is still here. The part of her that drove her to Montreal, the part that walked away from the clinic in St. Petersburg, who even now revels in their last hours in Moscow. That part of her that wants their game to continue, that knows that there is only one way for it to continue, that despite their competition, that there must be some trust between them.  
  
And it is that part that wins out, that speaks even as she drums her fingers against her arm. "Jim Moriarty was a madman, a sadist who drove himself to suicide just to prove himself right with nothing to show for it," she reminds him coldly.  
  
"I play my games with willing participants, Mr. Holmes. And I expect my employees to play by my rules. I know where to find stimulation if crime becomes boring." She glances sidelong at him at that. "I won't tolerate madness. It's bad for business."

 

He doesn't say 'Good'. He doesn't insult her by expressing any sort of approval at her words. If she had said the opposite of what he wanted to hear, it wouldn't matter. It's her crime web. He's given it to her, and given it to her freely. The moment he hands her the map he made so long ago, the one he squirreled away when he first met her back in Kotor, then every piece of information about Jim's web she could want is hers. His approval isn't required for that.  
  
But one side of his mouth does upturn, just a little. Because he does approve. Jim had a sort of elegance to his madness, something that was _new_ , and a brilliance unlike anyone he'd encountered before. But he _was_ insane. His insanity ruined lives, and it took something as beautiful as his web and made poisoned blotches all across it, like the one they're destroying now.  
  
"He overestimated his ability to destroy me," Sherlock says. "That's a mistake you won't make."

 

She does not promise him anything, because to promise him something about her web would be a weakness. She does not tell him the comforting lie that there will be no victims when she is the spider, because he will know it for a lie, because she _enjoys_ leaving behind victims. She likes to take the prideful and the powerful and leave them in ruin, and she will not insult him by pretending otherwise.  
  
But they have an understanding, one never spoken explicitly but pieced together from sentiment and unspoken agreements.  
  
She prefers to be alive, prefers comfort and to _misbehave_ , and that is a game that can be played for decades. A slow burn, a slowly unravelling thrill rather than a puzzle solved by a leap and a bullet.  
  
"Flawed assumption," she corrects him. "I destroy the reputations of people who put their stock in what others think. You don't care about what the rest of the world thinks of you. One might even say you're immune to my particular destructive tendencies."  
  
Not that they cannot _hurt_ each other. They have proven that out time and again the past few months. But destruction... no she doubts she could ever as thoroughly destroy him as she could the prime minister's career and reputation. She enjoyed his presence in the world too much, like a particularly well-wrought artwork, a particularly well thought out puzzle.  
  
She appreciates art. And she likes puzzles.

 

"And we're both far too difficult to kill," he replies. "Suicide is right out."  
  
A long, black car is coming down the road towards the hotel. That was fast, he thinks.

 

"Good. The world will have to learn to survive us both."  
  
Her hand moves unconsciously towards her abdomen, as her thoughts run toward the thought that there would be more than just them _both_ at some point, that there would be both of them and something that was both of them at once. She catches herself before her hand makes contact, before her stray sentiment can be so easily and visibly seen, and she stills herself, letting her hand fall back to her side.  
  
Irene rests said hand against her thigh, just a few inches above the slit in her dress, where the garter held the stiletto against her skin. She eyes the car as it approaches, watches the driver swing hard into the driveway of the hotel. "And where should I tell them to take us?" she muses. "The oldest, most well known nightclub in the city, or somewhere more scandalous?"

 

"The most well known would be more up his alley," Sherlock says. "Somewhere he can peruse potential buyers. Anything more scandalous might attract unwanted police attention."  
  
The driver doesn't stop at his window, but pulls up to the last of the car, which rolls down. To Sherlock's surprise, the car already has an occupant. A middle-aged woman with her blonde hair pulled back into a very tight bun.  
  
"Mr. Lafayette," she says, her Queen's English perfect. "We've already cancelled your car, please get in."  
  
Character. Sherlock needs to be in character right now.  
  
"Oh? I assume you're with Mister....?" A careful businessman would make precautions. He would want to be certain  
  
"Utkin, yes," the woman replies. "I'm Lorrin Chelsea, I'll be directing you. Please, get in."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Exactly halfway through the last installment of _Death Takes A Holiday_. To everyone who has stayed with us from the beginning, thank you for coming along with us on this wild ride. And to everyone who recently discovered this little epic and started from the beginning, thank you for taking a chance on us.
> 
> 13 more chapters to go!


	15. Self-Portraits in Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Irene's plans to destroy one last strand of the Spider's web is interrupted by a member of the cancerous cell itself. But is their confidence in their ability to overcome this interruption justified, or have Sherlock and Irene grown sloppy in their preoccupation with each other?

The assassin would be cautious, very disturbed by this change in the plan, by their vehicle being sent away, the new one that she has not had time to sweep for threats being presented. The madam, on the other hand, would be less cautious, no doubt instead pleased by the special attention.  
  
Irene plays her part with a momentary hesitation, the assassin's eyes cold and searching even as she smiles the madam's flattered smile, wide and full of false warmth. "Dear heart, look how thoughtful our guest is!" she exclaims, her English now tinged with Russian and the hint of a Germanic burr.  
  
She takes his elbow, her fingers firm on his, applying precise and exact pressure just in case she needs to tap out a code against his arm, and tugs him across the back of the car, to the passenger side door on the driver's side, nearer the street. "We've heard so much of Nicolai's reputation, you see," she says to the precise woman.

 

Ah, the madame. The one flattered and pleased to do business. The shield overtop of the assassin hired by a powerful and dangerous businessman. God, the Woman is brilliant. It's really not very difficult to have that tinge of attraction to play to (not that he'd admit it, of course). Professionalism in all things.  
  
"This is my companion, Miss Ruby Hooper," Sherlock says, sliding in as well. Not nearly as pretty a name as Martha or Elaine, in Sherlock's opinion, but one less likely to annoy the Woman. With the change in plans already annoying Sherlock, the last thing he needs is even a little spat with her.  
  
"Why the change so soon? We were considering dinner."  
  
"Mr. Utkin prefers to take care of business before pleasure," Miss Chelsea replies. "He believed you would be of the same stock."  
  
Oh, a delicious trick. Say no, and he's immediately of a different type of businessman to Mr. Utkin. It makes the 'yes' a must. Tricky.

 

She squeezes his arm once in approval at the name he chooses. Ruby. Bright and luxurious, certainly the type of name the madam would name _herself_ , whether her given name be Martha or Elaine. Ruby had an exuberance to it, and to pair it with the quiet morgue assistant's surname amuses Irene to no end.  
  
The interior of the car is sleek leather, luxurious at first glance, though it does not take a second for Irene to notice that it is carefully maintained leather, cold and taut, meant to intimidate, not supple and maintained for actual comfort. She gives the Chelsea woman a look instead, sees arrogance and pride in the curl of her lips, as if she is certain she has maneuvered them into some verbal trap.  
  
Irene has to expend actual effort to keep from rolling her eyes.  
  
"Christian would be business at all times if he has his way," Irene answers, practically cooing despite the veiled barb in her words. "But he's realized sometimes a little pleasure eases business dealings. After all, there's nothing like making your client comfortable to make them more inclined to do business, wouldn't you say?"

 

Miss Chelsea appears unimpressed. She exudes envy towards the Woman. Envy for her confidence and beauty, obviously, as well as her position. Sherlock has little doubt that the Woman would be able to manage some rapport with her by the end of their drive, but he imagines Miss Chelsea would make it difficult.  
  
"Too much grease can break down a machine," Sherlock responds. "But, yes. Some of the time."  
  
The car began to move, to pull away from the hotel. To take them from being in control to being completely out of it. Sherlock would be lying if he said that it made him feel any more in control, even knowing that both he and the Woman were armed.  
  
"Lorrin, is it?" Sherlock inquires.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Can you tell us---"  
  
"I'm not permitted to assist with your dealings," she responds immediately.  
  
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Can you tell us where we're going?"

 

Irene feigns a fleeting sulk for the madam, even as she looks more alert at Sherlock's question. The assassin would, of course, be interested in the answer to his question, and she plays that part too, tilting her head towards the Chelsea woman, a minute tell, of focused attention.  
  
"To _Garage_ , is it?" Irene asks. She does not bother trying to establish a rapport with this woman, not now. The assassin would want to be dismissed as a vapid tart, to keep as few eyes on herself as possible. The madam would dismiss the assistant as not worth her time when the puppet master would be available.  
  
She names one of the most trendy clubs in the city, one of the most scrutinized and public. It is an obvious wrong choice, and given the way the woman pointedly attempts to ignore 'Ruby' even as her eyes stray back over of their own accord, Irene feeds her the wrong answer to feed the woman's envy, to flatter her opinion that 'Ruby' was less than capable.  
  
She turns to Sherlock, and fights to keep herself from smirking as she says in utterly false seriousness, "It must be _Garage_ , the most important businessmen are seen there."

 

The businessman would be aware of the play, that his assassin was playing a game here, that he was to accept her obvious wrong answer. He is not in control of this game, the goddess he hired is. Of course, this is also true in many ways with the Woman, but Sherlock will never admit to that. Never.  
  
"The original meeting location," Lorrin Chelsea says, dismissive and annoyed. She offers Sherlock a small, thin smile, as though she is attempting to empathize with him for having such difficult business dealings as the clearly vapid woman on his arm.  
  
Christian LaFayette, enamoured idiotically of his assassin, would dismiss Lorrin Chelsea. He looks at her hair----the curl is unnatural, a permanent, and from the twist, he'll say it's one from a box, done in the bathroom of a hotel over the course of a few painstaking hours. It's also a specific kind of twist, not just something she likes, but something she's mimicked. Same with the shape of her nails, not the natural shape, but something odd and oval. And the shape of her eyeliner, that wingtip doesn't suit her eyes, but appears to be painstakingly replicated from somewhere else. She's a copier, an envier. She's the kind that wears the same clothes as someone she's seen before in order to do it one up better, and she'll be wearing the same high slit red dress as the Woman by the end of the week, given her own way. She's useless, a sponge. Sherlock wouldn't hire her for paperwork, much less return an empathetic smile to her. And, in Sherlock's opinion, LaFayette wouldn't, either. Even if he would, Sherlock really wants nothing to do with her.  
  
"Very well," Sherlock says. "I'll treat you to dinner afterwards, Ruby."

 

The car drives smoothly, but even smoothest ride cannot disguise the turns they make, and Irene counts them, keeps them in her mind. Her mental map of Moscow is imperfect, a matter of recall and not one of intimate knowledge, but Irene is confident of what area of Moscow Lorrin Chelsea is taking them, and a phantom itch grows between her shoulder blades.  
  
She reminds herself that this is _their_ holiday, that she refuses to let some petty smuggler get the best of them. Irene feigns another sulk at the Chelsea woman's response.   
  
"The warehouse district?" she asks, letting the madam's pique sneak into her voice, even as the assassin's hand tightens its grip ever-so-slightly on her employer's arm. The need to play layered disguises is exhilarating, and the touch of her nails against his arm is purely Irene Adler and neither assassin nor madam, a promise of stimulation.   
  
"All business," she sighs again, settling back in her seat, crossing her legs and baring an impressive amount of bare skin, and a hint of garter. The Chelsea woman's lips thin in disapproval, but her eyes track the motion of Irene's leg, and Irene can tell she is already thinking of how to copy the dress, the garter, but to do it in a way that 'improved' upon what she saw.  
  
"You and Nicolai must get along well, dear heart."

 

Her layered disguise is enthralling. The tightness of the grip belongs to the assassin, the annoyance in her voice belongs to the madam. He doubts that Lorrin Chelsea can see beyond the first layer, but Sherlock can. The disguises, their many notes and cadences, they're really why Sherlock wants the Woman here. It's their game. Their deadly game.  
  
"I imagine we will even better in person," he replies. The businessman, always the businessman, but one with a tension in his shoulder, knowing what is waiting for them in the warehouse, knowing what a dangerous weapon he has on his arm. It reminds him of holding a bouquet of Aconitum, or wolf's bane. Beautiful and exotic, but easy enough to kill the one holding them if handled incorrectly. Christian LaFayette should revere and fear his assassin in equal amounts, and keep both of them under a thin layer of professionalism.  
  
"We have much to discuss, he and I. Our new operation in New York."

 

The mention of New York brightens the madam's disposition considerably. It is, after all, _her_ business that is the operation in question, and she is coaxed out of her sulk by the mention of it, even as Irene Adler notes the way Sherlock Holmes watches her, as if trying to penetrate every layer of her disguise.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Utkin mentioned it," the Chelsea woman says, as if to preempt 'Ruby's response. "Girls, is it?"  
  
"More specific than that," Irene adds as the car makes one more turn and begins to slow. She tilts her head towards Sherlock, Ruby towards Christian Lafayette, towards her investor. "What was it our clients favoured? The Southeast Asian girls?"

 

Sherlock pulls out his mobile and flips through a few applications, feigning a glance through notes. Oh, the concierge is already on the 265th level of Candy Crush. John would be positively envious.  
  
"Vietnamese," he replies, with a nod. "In particular. Though I have two Hollywood clients listed here as favoring Iranian." His voice is flat, slightly _tired_. This line of work is exhausting, and has eaten a huge chunk of Christian Lafayette's soul. Sherlock, conversely, doesn't believe in souls, and therefore believes that Lafayette would be just as much at fault now as he was when he first starting dealing with young prostitutes.  
  
"Utkin mentioned an ability to specialize," Sherlock says to Lorrin Chelsea. "But I imagine you don't know about that."

 

Irene wrinkles her nose, the motion allowing her to hide a pleased smile as she watches Sherlock. She can practically _see_ the decision he makes to colour the businessman's voice with soul-crushing weariness. Still, she can see Sherlock Holmes behind the act, in the eyes that do not quite believe in something as intangible as soul-crushing weariness.  
  
"You won't let me ban those two from my new establishment?" she asks, giving the Chelsea woman more fodder to dismiss her, even as the woman is already reconsidering Sherlock's businessman, considering his mention of the girls a weakness, something she can exploit. "The upholstery always has to be replaced after a visit by either of those clients."  
  
The car stops, and even through the darkly tinted windows, Irene can see the distinctive blocky shapes of warehouses.

 

Sherlock pauses, looking away from his phone with a practiced, careful stillness to his look. A lot of things could be taken from the term "the upholstery always has to be replaced", and Lafayette's expression leaves the fact that any of them could be true. Any of them, and potentially _all_ of them. The consummate businessman would suppress. He would hold it all in.  
  
"My darlin', it's your business," he says. "I'm just here to facilitate it. You want them banned, consider it done."  
  
He reaches down, taking her hand and lifting it up to place a kiss on the top of it. An American gentleman, of sorts. God, Sherlock would really hate Christian Lafayette.  
  
He probably shouldn't be having this much fun.

 

The madam would be pleased by such a gesture, the assassin put-upon but accepting the necessity. Irene Adler, on the third hand, was simply _delighted_ as she watched him, as she allowed his lips to touch the top of her hand. She allows a small smile to twitch at the corner of her mouth, a small smile that the Chelsea woman thinks accompanies the coo of approval 'Ruby' twitters.  
  
"It'll be worth it, dear, you'll see," she says confidently. The driver of the car steps out, and eighteen steps later the Chelsea woman's door is opened by the driver. "And we won't need to find a supply of Iranian product."

 

This is one of those moments where the Woman and John Watson differ severely. The Woman can easily allow for her character to call children product. John would falter. Even if he were playing, even if there were characters and he knew it were a game, he wouldn't be able to make it smooth, make it cold and cruel and so _indifferent_.  
  
The Woman makes her character into an art.  
  
He doesn't say something as low and sentimental as 'I trust you'. Lafayette wouldn't.  
  
"I invest in you for a reason, Ruby."

 

Disguises were self-portraits, she'd told him once, that there was always a part of a truly convincing disguise that was _real_ , that reflected something of herself. The difficulty is, of course, in figuring out which part. No doubt some, Mycroft Holmes or the like, would see the truth of her disguise in her callous carelessness of human life, in the ease with which she reduced them to product, to money and insurance.  
  
And perhaps there was some small truth to it, that at her core Irene Adler was a selfish creature, willing and able to reduce human life to a calculus of benefits, of whether that life's benefit to her were greater alive or dead. Or perhaps the self-portrait in the disguise was in the assassin's cool, far-seeing dispassion.   
  
It did not matter much to Irene, not when the game was afoot, when pieces were moving. When the game was in play, she thrilled to it.  
  
Still, the appropriate words he says and the deeper meaning behind them make Irene smile, her fingers warm against his arm as she follows the Chelsea woman (now waiting impatiently, contemplating letting her hair loose, letting it fall out of its precise twist and in wild waves down her back) out of the car, her hand still on on Sherlock's arm. The assassin, unwilling to let go of her employer in an unknown situation.  
  
"And that reason isn't how you like the way I wear my dresses," she agrees as she sets foot on the asphalt again, the air cool after the warmth of the car and its polished leather. Irene turns to the Chelsea woman, tilts her head and looks to the abandoned, empty warehouse. "Your tastes could use some improvements."  
  
Another nail in the coffin of the Chelsea woman's opinion of her, an investment of her own, in indifference.

 

Another character might've been apologetic of the comment, but Christian Lafayette really doesn't care about Lorrin Chelsea. He has his madam to invest in, and a client to meet, and more money to make. He doesn't even spare the girl a glance at her wardrobe as they pass by.  
  
She's less than important, and the fact that she doesn't realize that is _pathetic_ , to Lafayette. She's less than important, and the fact that she doesn't realize that might get her killed, Sherlock knows.  
  
Lorrin gestures to the building, where two men stand guard at a large, metallic door. This district isn't well populated, the guards are there for show, for Sherlock and the Woman's benefit. Standard issue, paid well, workout four times a week at a local gym. Not army trained by any stretch of the imagination. Easy. They're not the ones Sherlock has to worry about.  
  
They hold open the door and gesture to a set of concrete stairs.

 


	16. The Business of Human Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolai Utkin is a monster, a man in Jim Moriarty's network whose business included the peddling of children. The destruction of his business is the last gift in Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes' holiday from death. But will Utkin be as easy a mark as those they have taken down before, or have the Woman and the Consulting Detective become sloppy in the wake of their sentiment?

The guard on the left has a weak right knee, despite his workout regime, and Irene files that away for later. It is the sort of weakness the assassin would look for. The guard on the right, unfortunately, did not, though his pornography habit was extensive, judging by the way he rested his weight. That was a weakness Irene Adler would find though in this case it did little good. Neither would be a problem for them, and instead Irene considers the stairs they are gestured towards.   
  
Nondescript, concrete stairs, showing little wear. Either refinished recently or simply rarely used. Irene could not tell at first glance which it was. She thinks of the stiletto hidden against her thigh, and how easily Lorrin Chelsea could be dispatched when necessary. Irene did not consider it an 'if'; this was her gift to him, to destroy one last part of Moriarty's web and Irene fully expected it to be a full cleansing of the house, of every part of this web snipped clean.  
  
The smuggler himself, however, would likely be difficult. Despite her own attempts at research, Irene had found irritatingly little on Nicolai Utkin, the 'Paddler', not that she would admit it. It would take actually seeing him to know how much violence would be necessary.  
  
"Suddenly afraid to lead?" she asks Lorrin Chelsea, her hand still on Sherlock's arm as she tosses her hair over her shoulder as she gestures to the stairs leading upward.

 

The insult on Lorrin Chelsea's face is lovely, but she doesn't back down from remaining behind. She gestures again, and Sherlock takes the initiative, because that is what the investor would do. He would step forward, would put himself in danger.  
  
And this _is_ dangerous. This is a location he wasn't expecting, and it's a situation he doesn't know. He knows this part of Russia, he knows where he is, but he doesn't know this building, he doesn't know its layouts. This isn't London. He longs for his city, he longs for its heartbeat, for the way it breathes under his footsteps. He could control something in London. There is excitement and pleasure in the unknown, but there is danger, too.  
  
And part of him knows of the added consequence for the Woman if she is injured. For the bundle of cells she's chosen to keep.  
  
"It's all right, my dear."

 

The investor would take charge, the businessman taking to the goad despite his assassin drilling it into him to be cautious. In response, the assassin is annoyed, cautious, and her hand tightens on his arm even as the madam smiles and follows his lead and leans close, small gestures that hint as submission.  
  
Irene Adler, on the other hand, is watchful beyond the assassin's annoyance, and her fingertips tap against his arm in quick bursts as they begin to mount the smooth steps.  
  
... .... . .----. ... / .- ..-. .-. .- .. -..

 

_She's afraid._  
  
Yes, yes she is. Sherlock gives the Woman a half nod. Lorrin Chelsea isn't afraid of the Woman, isn't afraid of the madame (the only disguise she sees, since she's far too blind to notice the assassin.) No, the world above is something she's frightened of. Someone far too involved in this world, someone far too ingrained and afraid. Afraid and jealous, what a terrible life she must live.  
  
None of the floors are occupied. Lorrin gestures to the fourth floor, which has a few sparse desks, and a few overturned tables among the rubble and damaged walls. A rather ominous location for a meeting, and no one around for Sherlock to read, no one attached to the space. The whole thing must be meant to throw them off, to make them uncomfortable.  
  
It's working.  
  
She extends her hand. "I'll need your mobiles."  
  
"No," Sherlock says, immediately. "You don't need them, you haven't been asked for them, and you're only trying to assert dominance. And I _really_ don't have time for that." He's spoken too fast for Lafayette, he realizes. Just a shade too cocky.  
  
There's a deep, masculine laugh from within the warehouse.

 

She can feel the tension grow in his arm under her fingers as they ascend floor after floor and find nothing but emptiness, abandoned cavernous spaces that echo with their footsteps. It is deliberate, of course, to put visitors ill at ease. It tells Irene that their mark is fond of drama, of cliched movies and their scripted dramatic reveals. It tells her too that their mark enjoys playing the villain, that he has no illusion that his work is anything but villainous. Useful bits of knowledge if she were to keep him under her employ, but significantly less helpful given that she planned to have him dead in the next hour.  
  
When the Chelsea woman demands their mobiles, Irene's grip on Sherlock's hand tightens like a vise, but the caution is too late as he blurts out his deduction in rapid-fire words, too quick for Christian Lafayette, whose impatience is tempered with world-weariness.  
  
Irene forces the madam's disguise in place, to keep the fiction intact despite his slip. "Is that really necessary?" she demands, adding a petulant whine to her voice, shading with a warm simper. She looks around as the deep laugh echoes from the dark. "This isn't how they say you do business. What are you trying to do, scaring your business partners like this?"

 

He could play the attitude, he decides. He could work it into his game, into the way Christian LaFayette would behave. Protecting the lady, however silly that might seem.  
  
"We don't have time for this sort of _drama_ ," he says. And again, in unaccented Russian: " _Stop with the nonsense. Do you want to conduct business, or not?_ "  
  
There's a shuffle of footsteps, and three men appear, seemingly out of thin air, though Sherlock deduces that they appeared from behind several of the overturned shelves, turned and standing just in a way that they could hide without having to crouch. The leader is the smallest man, no taller than five foot, balding and overweight, with a thick jawline and short, stubby fingers (diabetes, probably, untreated.)

 

The madam would be pleased by chivalry, the assassin less so. Irene Adler is simply irritated that the charade needs to continue. Perhaps it is his influence, or simply the knowledge that their hours in Moscow are limited, but Irene cannot help but be aware of how needless this charade is. How much simpler it would be if the short man who is their leader was not so fond of his over dramatic entrances.  
  
"I can't say I'm very impressed by your hospitality," Irene sniffs, the madam's obvious petulance on display as she seems to cling to Christian Lafayette.

 

"Simply protecting myself from the faint-hearted, Miss Hooper," Nicolai Utkin says in English, his voice thickly accented with Russian. He extends a hand to her. "I can not help but be interested in the reactions of the ones I am most interested in seeing."  
  
His voice is cheerful, but his eyes are watchful. Sherlock does a quick, cursory look. Polished shoes, new, two months old, risers in heels. Insecurity over height. Tailored suit, recently repaired on the knees. Sexual deviant. Slight injury to the wrist, one week old. Recent use of favored torture device, and incorrectly. Armed, small pistol, back pocket. Worried about the way this would go down.  
  
Cheerful but cautious. Taking in the appearance of the Woman, but not interested in her beauty. Perhaps reading through her first layered disguise. That would be actually interesting.  
  
"I had thought we'd be meeting amiably," Sherlock says.

 

Their mark is unremarkable, as men go. Even less so as criminals go. But his appearance explains much about the show he has put on, about the way they've been driven up to this point. Irene notices a fading mark against his hand, near the injury on his wrist, where a flogger had bitten him due to incorrect use. Someone who knew how to use the toy would know how to swing it to avoid backlash.  
  
His control over the situation says quite a bit about his insecurity, about how deep it ran and how he sought to hide it through exerting control. He would likely have contingency plans, though not very imaginative ones. His eyes slide over her, weighing, calculating, but his pupils did not dilate along her curves, did not linger on the high slit of her dress. No, Irene imagined she was not what he liked, that his tastes ran younger, to more helpless _product_.  
  
"Christian wouldn't invest in me if either of us were fainthearted," comes Ruby's answer with a smile, though the smile does not reach her eyes, glancing between Utkin to his flanking guards, the assassin's restless study of the situation.   
  
Irene takes his proffered hand and shakes, her grip soft, a touch limp, deferential, while his was overly strong. It allowed her a thorough feel for the extent of the callouses on his thumb. Between them and the wrist injury, Irene recognized that while he was eager with the flogger, he was hardly a quick study.

 

Utkin is a regular reader, the shape of his ear said as much, from regular use of reading glasses. Book smart, well in control of this situation, he is clever. Probably sizing up the Woman, sizing up the layers of disguises, and trying to pin her for what he's looking for. How long until he sees the assassin? How long until he realizes what that means?  
  
This is far better than the opera.  
  
"Mr. Lafayette," Utkin says, with a gesture. "I understand your American need for a weapon, but I hope you'll understand our need for protection as we move forward with this discussion."  
  
Sherlock feigned ignorance. His character's primary layer.  
  
"Your _gun_ , Mr. Lafayette."

 

The assassin gives Christian Lafayette an irritated look, even as Ruby Hooper stays close, opens her mouth to protest. 'I told you so', says the look of the professional who had in fact told her client precisely that, that the gun was unnecessary and more trouble to them than it was worth.  
  
"If you're so interested in seeing us, you're not acting like it. We came to talk business, not to be treated like thugs. If you're not interested in business then we'll just leave," Irene says, twisting the words with Ruby's growing offense, her fingers tightening on Sherlock's arm as she has the madam turn, as if to flounce back down the stairs.

 

"My merchandise is precisely what you are looking for, Miss Hooper," Utkin says. "And extremely valuable. I think you'll agree. But I think you'll also understand that we have to keep it safe. From all weapons."  
  
There's a slight twitch to the fat man's lip, and Sherlock can barely contain his smile. Utkin thinks he's seen through the disguise, thinks he knows something about the Woman, thinks he knows her game.  
  
Brilliant.  
  
Sherlock lets out a sigh, and hands over the gun. The guard takes it, examining it with an annoyed look. It's clearly expensive, clearly never been fired. A show gun, obviously.  
  
"Are we ready to talk business, or are we continuing with drama?" Sherlock demands. "Because I do not enjoy the way my companion is being treated."  
  
"No, you don't, do you?" Utkin thinks he knows Sherlock's secrets, too.

 

The assassin does not like the tone her mark takes, and Irene's eyes narrow in response, turning back to face Utkin, to watch their man preen in his belief that he somehow has an advantage over them. "Your assistant," the subtle stress on the word is dismissive, meant to rankle Lorrin Chelsea, who has already been dismissed once they had arrived, "says that you like to get down to business. This isn't getting us anywhere."  
  
Irene allows more of the assassin's crisp business-like demeanor to peep through the madam's act, as if their mark's behaviour is putting her on edge.

 

"Yes, of course." Utkin gestures towards the other side of the large room, to where Sherlock imagines another door, perhaps another set of stairs awaits them. He glances at Utkin's shoes. High lift, limited creases. No, not stairs. A loading dock of some sort. Some sort of ramp will be waiting.  
  
"You have a _sharp_ business mind, Miss Hooper. I like that about you," Utkin adds. "This will be good relationship, I think."  
  
Sherlock's fingertip dances across the Woman's arm.  
  
.... . / - .... .. -. -.- ... / .... . / .. ... / -.-. .-.. . ...- . .-.  
  
Utkin is far from the best part of this. Watching the Woman's layers move about are far, far more intriguing.

 

_He thinks he is clever_.  
  
Irene allows herself to smile, but the assassin's aloof restlessness remains in the set of her spine and the smile merely appears to be that of the assassin, pleased that her mark is acquiescing.  
  
"That depends on whether your product is what we're looking for," she answers, the faint touch of a Germanic burr in her Russian. They head for the ramp, though Irene waves Utkin in front of them, knowing his bodyguards will fall behind them. He thinks he has them cowed, at this point, that the necessary drama has been enough to make Sherlock and Irene his de facto prisoners.  
  
"So glad you're happy to let it speak for itself, now that we've settled your concerns."  
  
Her own fingers slide along Sherlock's arm as they move, tapping out a response in rapid succession, trusting, no _forcing_ him to keep up.  
  
.... . / ... .... --- ..- .-.. -.. / .... .- ...- . / ..- ... . -.. / .- / -... . - - . .-. / -.-. --- .- - / .- -. -.. / ... .... --- .-. - . .-. / -... --- -.. -.-- --. ..- .- .-. -.. ...

 

A slight smirk touches the edge of his lips. _He should have used a better coat and shorter bodyguards._  
  
-.. .. ..-. ..-. .. -.-. ..- .-.. - / ..-. . .- - / - --- / ..-. .. -. -.. / --- -. . ... / ... .... --- .-. - . .-.  
  
No, they don't have the gun, but the Woman has her knife. Even if Utkin takes it, they still have the fact that the Woman is far more than a trained assassin and that Sherlock is far more than just a businessman on their side.  
  
They are at the advantage.  
  
The soul-weariness of Lafayette comes in. "I imagine---this is where you keep them?"  
  
"It keeps everything away from the authorities, of course," Utkin replies, easily.

 

_Difficult feat to find ones shorter._  
  
Irene spares him a quick, sidelong glance and a twitch of the lips that is utterly hers before facing forward again, the cautious assassin.  
  
It is perhaps dangerous how thoroughly she is enjoying herself, how thoroughly _they_ are enjoying themselves, despite the armed guards at their back and the smuggler ahead. But it is precisely what she likes, to be able to move through these petty ordinary people, to manipulate them, and to know there is someone with her who sees as she does, who can anticipate her moves, and see with clarity precisely what she is doing.  
  
She will miss it, she thinks, if she were feeling particularly sentimental.  
  
"All the more reason to move them quickly into our possession," Irene says. "These are hardly _comfortable_ quarters. Certainly not up to our standards."

 

"Yes, well, you do need to spend on your product in order to get a greater input," Sherlock replies. "Capital in, utility out. Basics of economics."  
  
He pulls the mobile from his pocket again, and begins flipping through the GPS locator. Lafayette would be preoccupied, the investor but not the madam, only interested in making certain that everything moves smoothly.  
  
"Oh, yes," Nicolai Utkin says, stopping as they reached the first set of loading ramps. "We will need your mobiles, now."  
  
Sherlock can practically feel Lorrin Chelsea sneering behind them.  
  
"What for?"  
  
"No photographs of the product."

 

"Afraid your product won't stand up to the scrutiny of photographs?" Irene asks. This is the madam's element, the peddling of human flesh, and the difference between the madam and the assassin now is more difficult to see, the edge more seamless. The assassin's professionalism blurs into the madam's business interests, her eyes sharp for weakness in a human body.  
  
Still, Irene reaches into the neck of her dress, untucking a mobile from her decolletage. It is a gauche gesture, but certainly the sort expected from the madam. "You're not inspiring much confidence, Mr. Utkin."

 

"Oh, you'll be able to see the product up close and personal for yourself, Ms. Hooper," Utkin says, gesturing to one of his taller guards to take the mobile from her. "But privacy is, of course, paramount."  
  
A slender female hand takes Sherlock's phone from his hand. Lorrin Chelsea, of course. A coy smile plays on her face. All sympathy Sherlock might have been considering feeling for the woman vanishes. She thinks this was funny. Well, she wouldn't think it was, later.  
  
World-weary, Lafayette sighs. "Let's go, then."

 

The guard that takes her mobile leers at Irene, an idiot's smile on his face as if he were no better than the primate he appears to be, and she hangs on to it for a second longer than necessary before letting it go. A feigned struggle to make them believe she is displeased by the situation.  
  
She glares at him, the madam irritated by their treatment more than by the leer. "I can see why you were irritated," 'Ruby' says. "This isn't conducive to business dealings at all."  
  
When the bodyguard grunted, no doubt some signal that they were clear, only then did Utkin push open the door to the loading ramp, revealing a hallway, feebly, atmospherically lit.  
  
Irene swore silently. The idiot's love of melodrama was earning him a slower death by the second.

 

The hallway is dark, and surprisingly damp. His melodrama apparently extends out to the living quarters of his young prostitutes. This isn't what Sherlock read before, but perhaps the man is simply more of a terrible person than Sherlock had read about. More of a bastard, more of a cruel, twisted creature.  
  
There are no crying children, held in their rooms, no doubt, in complete silence. This makes something twist in Sherlock's stomach. Some part of his conscience that he considers only there by the grace of John Watson.  
  
"End of the hall," Utkin says. "It's the room where we'll talk."  
  
No matter the melodrama, Sherlock and the Woman have the upper hand. Utkin thinks he's dealing with an ignorant businessman and a hired gun.

 

Something is wrong, and Irene feels it as soon as they walk into the hall, its walls damp, empty. The rooms behind the doors are dark, and several of them sport undisturbed mold along the doorjambs.  
  
"We're here to inspect the merchandise _first_ ," Irene says sharply, the assassin's anxiety thinly disguised as the madam's irritation. She steps away from Sherlock, from Utkin, and towards one of the doors in the middle of the hall. "The girls. I insist on it."

 

Sherlock takes a confident step forward. It's a game, it's _their_ game. It's going to be easy to stay in character with this little stupid man following them, and then they'll turn, the Woman will pull out her knife, and they'll take all of them out. One at a time.  
  
They have the advantage.  
  
Sherlock reaches for the door handle.  
  
Utkin lets out a chuckle at the Woman's sharp tone. "Where else would I be taking you, Miss Adler?"

 


	17. The Mistakes of Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has sentiment made Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes sloppy enough that even a minor agent within Moriarty's web could penetrate their disguise, or is something else at work in Moscow?

The name causes ice to slide down her spine, freezing Irene momentarily where she is; Sherlock is reaching for the door, far enough away that she cannot tap a message into his arm without being obvious. Irene forces herself to turn to Utkin, to give him a blandly quizzical look.   
  
"Who exactly do you think you're expecting?"  
  
The knife is within easy reach, but they are, at the moment, outnumbered two to one. The guards being the most trouble, though Utkin and the Chelsea woman could certainly bring more if they were not immediately silenced.  
  
Irene's hand itches for the weapon at her thigh, but the leering bodyguard steps up again, towering over her, his smile still on his lips.  
  
"Don't play coy, Miss Adler," Lorrin Chelsea adds, her voice smug and triumphant. "Miss Irene Adler, isn't it, or do you prefer to be called Mrs. Irene Norton?"

 

It is as though in that moment, the entire room freezes. It freezes, and things rewind. They rewind back, back to the way that he gave up his gun and then his mobile and the way Utkin looked the Woman up and down for her weapon, and back, and suddenly, he sees himself and the Woman standing in the hotel, and the concierge with her mobile.   
  
That distinctive mobile, the one that seemed so simple and such a perfect stand in for Sherlock's character. The one that had a lot of games played on it, but not a lot of messages or phone calls. It hadn't mattered, so Sherlock hadn't registered it. The one who called for the car. The one who easily and completely focused on the Woman, just like she was told to.  
  
And then they speed up, to Lorrin Chelsea, in the car. The way she sneered and envied her. No, not just for her looks and her confidence and her fake personality, but for the way she held all three and---and---  
  
Slight limp in left leg, evidence of plucking of hairs by the ear---testosterone imbalance. Lorrin Chelsea has a hormone imbalance. Probability of sterility 93%. No. No, Lorrin Chelsea is jealous of something completely different about Irene Adler. Something that they know because---  
  
"Someone from St. Petersburg told you we were coming," Sherlock says, dropping his accent. "Someone who was there."  
  
"Correct," Utkin says.

 

_St. Petersburg_.  
  
The car chase, the six men systematically hunted down, killed. The medical records, burned. But there had been no way of being certain that they had stopped the information at that point, that they had to trust to the balance of probability.  
  
There had always been a chance.  
  
Utkin's attention is on Sherlock for the moment, both his and the Chelsea woman. Irene's mind races as she considers their odds. Two bodyguards, neither terribly bright, but fast, heavy hitters. Lorrin Chelsea, hardly a fighter, but with her mobile, the ability to call the guards from below, or even more from elsewhere. Nicolai Utkin, both formidable despite his size and possessed of the ability to summon reinforcements. It was obvious what would have to happen first, that Chelsea and Utkin would have to be dispatched before the guards.  
  
Irene's hand drifts to her side, fingers loose, tapping, a seeming nervous tic. She takes a step back, closer to Lorrin Chelsea, and finds herself walking straight into the leering bodyguard, whose hand clamps over her wrist, twists her arm roughly behind her back.  
  
"Someone who has quite a bit to say about you, Miss Adler," the Chelsea woman adds, the smug superiority in her voice turning to vicious poison as the bodyguard's grip tightens on Irene's wrist.  
  
She refuses to make a sound, the pain is hardly worth the noise after all, instead turning to look at Sherlock, as if she can warn him to not do anything patently idiotic even as she angles her stance so that she can break the bodyguard's toes with a well-planted heel.

 

"Oh, do _shut up_ ," Sherlock says, taking half a step towards Lorrin Chelsea.  
  
"For every strike you land on Miss Chelsea, Mr. Holmes, we will throw a strike to the abdomen of Miss Adler," Utkin says. "And while I have a whole rack of paddles for you, I don't think either of you want any real physical trauma overtaking _her_ do you?"  
  
Sherlock glances in the Woman's direction. She could handle one strike, couldn't she? Just one, to shock the hell out of Lorrin Chelsea and to shut her the hell up. But the baby---the Inconvenience, the bundle of cells, the thing that will be a baby, it couldn't handle a strike. And Utkin knows it.  
  
"Open the door, Mr. Holmes, and go sit in the cage."

 

Irene's mind is racing, considering what options she has at hand, and she barely hears the threat from Utkin. The bodyguard who restrains her is not terribly bright, used to following orders and indulging his libido. Breaking the bones of his foot would both stun and incapacitate him momentarily, but he was the type to lash out rather than remain stunned. He'd have to be disposed of before she could reach either Chelsea or Utkin.

But once he was dead or dying, the taser he had on him would be immensely useful.

"--any real trauma overtaking her do you?"

The threat in Utkin's voice is clear, even if she had not paid attention to the actual consequences he is threatening her with, and Irene's jaw sets in anticipation of whatever threat had been made. She meets Sherlock's hesitant glance and shakes her head once, glances quickly down and to the right as she does so.

They still had the knife, and Utkin's guard only had her by one arm. If he provided the distraction she could easily arm herself again, and they would be able to put a decisive end to this.

 

The Woman looks down, and Sherlock thinks of the knife. Utkin knows it's there, but he's clearly not considered it a threat. Body armor? Possibly. Maybe he simply thinks a knife would be useless when there are so many guns around. The Woman would be far more than they anticipated. Sherlock just had to keep the attention on himself.  
  
He opens the door. Within the room is a dingy, poorly lit---well, for lack of a better term, _torture chamber._ Sherlock had seen the like before. A cage, some chains. A line of paddles of varying length and material. Sherlock was going to be beaten, presumably while the Woman watched.  
  
"This isn't for my benefit," Sherlock says, taking a cautious step inside. "You're not punishing _me_. I don't mean anything to you. You'd just shoot me for insolence."  
  
"No, Mr. Holmes. I'm proving a point," Utkin agrees. "To someone who would think to ruin a very well-crafted enterprise."

 

It is unnervingly easy to feign nervousness, to tug against the grip on her arm as she watches Sherlock take a single step into the dingy room, the dim light casting shadows against the chains and paddles and the like. She knows that the effect is crafted, meticulously so, for dramatic effect, but that does not keep her concern from growing. But she needs to play to their expectations, to their belief that she can be cowed, thereby keeping Utkin's attention away from her.  
  
"What makes you think I'm at all concerned about your _demonstration_?" Irene demands, letting her words trip over themselves just a touch too quickly, as if giving away anxiety, as if she were bluffing.   
  
She struggles against the guard again, forcing him to grip tighter, and presses herself against his front even as she fakes a gasp of pain when he twists her arm, and she is rewarded by a twitch against her buttocks and a shift of the guard's grip on her arm. Good. His grip had grown but he was distracted, blood moving southward, making him less liable to follow immediate orders.  
  
"I know your implements, exactly what damage they will cause. None of them are fatal. This is all useless theatre."

 

"Not useless for me," Utkin says, oblivious to the guard's sexual distraction, focused on the Woman's apparent distraught. Sherlock can only hope it's merely apparent. She doesn't worry easily, and she can't worry about him. He's handled far worse than this, and he can handle more trauma in this moment.  
  
Sherlock steps into the room, and Utkin picks up the first paddle, situated on the wall near the door. Long, thin, wooden. Its length makes up for the height difference between himself and Sherlock, Sherlock supposes. This can't be that bad.  
  
"I also know where to hit, Miss Adler." He throws the first swing at Sherlock's back, where so long ago in Kotor a knife went in. Although the wound has healed, the trauma to the area causes Sherlock to drop to a knee in surprise and pain. He grunts, but doesn't cry out.  
  
"When you don't walk to the cage fast enough, Mr. Holmes, I hit." He throws another strike, this one against the back of Sherlock's shoulder. The thin wood against the bone of his shoulder would've caused him pain no matter if a delicately healed wound wasn't already there, but with the gunshot from London leaving its souvenir on him, it causes him to cry out.

 

Utkin's swings betray three things: one, that he has far more information on them than Irene's pregnancy, given how unerringly he swings the paddle into Sherlock's mending wounds. Two, that he is an utter incompetent when it comes to handling his instruments, favouring a poor grip and compensating for control through force. And three, that he is going to die within the next hour, and it would be painful.

Irene twists again in the guard's grasp and gives the Chelsea woman a look. The Chelsea woman's attention is riveted on Utkin and Sherlock, her lips parted as her eyes remain fixed on the pair, her fingers curled tight against the mobile in her hand. Hard to be certain whether it was the simple sadism that attracts her, or the idea of pain being inflicted on someone she dislikes. Irene suspects the latter.

 

The guard's reaction to her movement is only to pull her closer to him, not to tighten his grip, and Irene feigns a pained whimper in response.

Two seconds after which she brings her shoe squarely down on the guard's right foot, feeling a satisfying crack of bone beneath her heel, while at the same moment reaching for the stiletto at her thigh with her left hand, baring the slim silver blade and promptly burying it into the man's throat.

 

Sherlock Holmes sees stars and red. In a moment like this, he would fight back, or at the very least _move_ out of the way of the oncoming blows, but he wants the attention on himself. He wants to make certain that the attention isn't turned back to the Woman.  
  
Oh, for God's sake, that's downright _chivalrous_ , and the very thought makes Sherlock's nose crinkle in disgust. She's going to end up _taming_ him, this Woman.  
  
Utkin throws another blow to Sherlock's shoulder, apparently really liking that cry, and he is rewarded with another. Sherlock's shout drowns out any cry made by the guard.

 

The guard gurgles with a satisfying choking sound, and Irene pulls his taser from his belt as he falls, ignoring the spray of arterial blood the splatters her skin and her clothing. The dress is red, it hardly shows.  
  
Sherlock's cry drowns out the man's gurgle, and both the Chelsea woman and the other guard are both too focused on Utkin and Sherlock to realize what had happened. Irene pulls the stiletto out of the man's throat and slips behind Lorrin Chelsea, landing a blow with the butt of the taser to the back of the woman's head. She drops, still alive but unconscious, to the ground. Irene replaces the stiletto knife back into her garter, its handle slick with the first guard's blood, and tightens her grip on the taser, her attention focused on Utkin, watching as he lands another blow directly on the scar from London and cold fury burns in her veins.  
  
Logically she should not wait, should fire the weapon and render Utkin unconscious before disposing of the other guard, but she wants to see the look on the smuggler's face. And as she had told him, she knows his implements are not fatal, even poorly employed, and she knows she can wait for him to raise the weapon again.  
  
Her hand itches for the paddle Utkin raises as she moves silently into the cage.

 

Sherlock drops to his hands, and Utkin moves over, his small frame suddenly enormous with the pain shooting through Sherlock's body. He can see, through how his head is curled downwards, that the Woman's guard is dead on the floor and Lorrin Chelsea is in a heap, as well.  
  
He can withstand this. It's only for another moment.  
  
"They call you 'the Paddler', but it's not a very apt nickname, is it?" Sherlock manages to say, lifting his head. His voice is breathy, shaky. Embarrassing. He swallows some air, and the breath in hurts.  
  
"Oh, what does that mean?" Utkin says, lifting the paddle up for another strike.

 

Sherlock falls to his hands, and Irene hesitates, her attention wavering from the human trafficker and his guard to the consulting detective on the floor. No, even improperly gripped the paddle's blows are nonfatal, if painful. Her focus needs to be on Utkin.

Irene slips silently out of her heels and steps up close as Utkin raises his arm again. His grip is strong, but his improper holding of the implement means it takes little strength to twist said paddle out of his grasp. Which Irene does with ease despite the blood slicking her own fingers.

"He means that for someone who enjoys using the paddle as much as you do, you're utterly incompetent at wielding it," she says as she wrenches it out Utkin's grip, in the same movement jabbing the taser into the man's spine. She is not clear enough to press the trigger without harming herself, but she simply needs the man to be off balance for another moment.

"And as much as I enjoy having Mr. Holmes on his knees, I abhor incompetence."

 

Utkin turns, at first insulted that the paddle was pulled from his grip, and then terrified as he realizes that he's been overpowered by the one he thought was a prisoner. He feels the taser against his back and jerks upwards, clearly terrified.  
  
Good.  
  
The other guard moves to his hip, either for a gun or for some sort of a communication device to call the other guards up. Sherlock has 2.4 seconds to move.  
  
Army-trained. Injury to right ear while in Afghanistan. Obvious. Long-healed callouses on hands, classically trained on the cello, took up electric guitar from ages 18-25. Irrelevant. Injury to right elbow in football, age 28. Useful. Sherlock puts his weight on his uninjured shoulder and pushes upwards, propelling himself forward, going for the old injury, for the arm that won't bear the same weight as the first. He grabs for the wrist and pulls back on the elbow, and is granted with the satisfying sound of bone breaking.  
  
Communication threat, neutralized.

 

Their position is not secure yet, not in the slightest, but they do have the momentary advantage and Irene Adler is always one to press for the upper hand. "Very good," Irene purrs, as Utkin jerks up in fear, his entire body taut. She presses her advantage, and jabs him again with the taser before taking a single step back, just enough space to swing the paddle.   
  
"Now, Mr. Utkin, be a good boy and walk over to those chains. I trust you know exactly what will happen if you don't move as quickly as I expect."  
  
She does not turn her eyes from Utkin, though Irene does tilt her head ever so slightly towards Sherlock, now pointing the taser towards the guard. The brittle calm of her voice fractures just a bit as she continues, "Mr. Holmes, I trust that scream was at least partially theatrical?"

 

Utkin jerks again, but remains still, his diminutive frame exuding fear.  
  
Sherlock struggles with the guard for only a moment before wrestling his gun from his hand and slamming the butt of it onto the back of his neck, rendering the guard unconscious. Not bad, with one arm out for the count. For the moment, at any rate. Vicodin can't be so difficult to come by. Sherlock can acquire some of that, let the arm heal and then---  
  
The Woman is addressing him, and Sherlock turns to her, offended.  
  
"I did not _scream_ ," he says.

 

"No?" Her attention is divided between him and Utkin, but there is no mistaking the smirk in her voice. "Then what exactly was it that drowned out the sound of the guard choking on his own blood?"  
  
Irene frowns, however, at Utkin's refusal to move, and this time does make good on her threat, swinging the long thin paddle with an almost lazy flick of the wrist, to bring it down on the man's left knee with a sharp, painful slap.

 

Utkin's cry is probably mostly theatrical, and he whimpers in a violently childlike fashion at the Woman's slap.  
  
Sherlock raises a hand to his sore shoulder, giving it a short massage before he realizes his own actions and lowers his hand.  
  
"I may have made a noise," he says. "Involuntarily, but it wasn't a _scream_ of any sort."

 

Utkin's reaction earns him another blow, this one less lazy, directed at the soft spot just behind Utkin's knee. Irene does not wait for him to recover, instead yanking on the man's collar, pulling him off-balance, and all but throwing him at the hanging chains.  
  
"Well, as you've recovered enough to argue," she says casually, dealing their former captor another blow, this time fully across the face. "Perhaps you can help me chain him up, Mr. Holmes. I think Mr. Utkin could use a lesson in how his implements are to be properly used."

 

Utkin looks up at Sherlock, and he has the audacity to have a _pleading_ gaze. Sherlock gives him the smallest of _pouts_ in reply.  
  
"Work, work, work," he replies, stepping over to the man and gripping him roughly by the hair.  
  
His uninjured side still has plenty of strength, and he can all but throw Utkin towards the chains on the wall, chains that were, no doubt, to be used on either himself or the Woman. The Woman, Sherlock imagines. Eventually.  
  
"I'll tell you!" Utkin cries out. "I'll tell you where the girls are!"  
  
"Girls?" Oh, right. They were rescuing girls.

 

Sherlock is favouring one side, the motion is obvious and Irene considers Utkin as he is thrown towards the wall, mentally cataloging places on the man where blows would be most effective, and most viscerally satisfying.   
  
She lingers along the lined up rows of paddles, ignoring the thinner, softer wooden ones, until she picks up one that is thin, with precisely drilled holes through the wide flat metal paddle. She waits, and a slow, cold smile grows on her face as Utkin cries out, as if believing he can actually buy his way out of his current predicament by simply relinquishing a handful of children.  
  
Irene runs a finger along the metal paddle she's chosen, and steps forward, placing the edge of said paddle under Utkin's chin, forcing the man's head up to face her. "It's going to take far more than that to buy your way out of your little predicament," she informs him, her voice all ice and velvet. "But let's start with the children you think we're here for. And then who exactly told you we were coming."

 

Sherlock chains the blubbering Utkin up as he names another warehouse in other part of the city where the children are held. Information to be stored and handed over to the authorities (maybe) or to just be given to the Woman, should she decide to help the girls herself.  
  
At the Woman's question of who sent them, Utkin goes pale, his eyes wide as he stares at the paddle in her hand.  
  
"N-No," he blubbers. "No, no, they---they'll kill me if I---"  
  
"Oh, don't worry, they're not going to be able to do that," Sherlock informs him, helpfully.

 

Only once Utkin is chained up does Irene take her eyes off of him to look at Sherlock fully, to sweep her gaze over the way he holds himself, to see for herself that he is (mostly) unhurt. Her study is quick, efficient, though not as thorough as she would like, but it is enough that some small tension eases out of the set of her spine, out of the way she holds herself.  
  
Utkin looks somewhere between relieved and terrified at Sherlock's helpful words, and Irene takes the opportunity to remove the stiletto again, flicking open the bloodied blade. "Mr. Holmes is right, of course," she says, stepping in close to Utkin, holding up the stiletto knife for his appraisal. Perhaps it is his blubbering that distract him, or the tears threatening at his eyes, but the man's focus is on the paddle in her hand, and not the knife.   
  
Irene's lips curl into a cruel smile as she drives the stiletto into Utkin's shoulder, at the exact spot where the criminal had driven the paddle into the healing bullet wound in Sherlock's shoulder. She drives it in deep, feeling it dig into muscle, sinew, and pulls it out again, hardly giving the man a moment to recognize what has happened, before she lands a blow directly onto the stab wound.   
  
"Tell us who they are, and they won't kill you," she says. "Or shall we see if your 'involuntary noises' are more like screams than the ones you extracted."

 

Utkin lets out a scream, and Sherlock is reminded of a time so very long ago, pressing his foot into a cabbie's shoulder, extracting a name. In his own way, Utkin is dying and there's still time to hurt him.  
  
He won't live, not when the Woman is this incensed. A strange spark of arousal shoots up Sherlock's spine at that, and he decides that it is probably very Not Good to think about right now, and he suppresses it.  
  
"It was one!" he cries out. "It was one, just one! She came and told me you would be here! Showed me medical files!"

 

Only now does Utkin seem to notice the splatter of the bodyguard's blood on Irene's skin, the way she watches him as if he were little more than an insect whose wings she is slowly pulling off. "One woman with medical files," she repeats, a note of cold skepticism in her voice as she raises the paddle again. "You'll have to do better than that."  
  
She turns to Sherlock then, all casual cruelty, and nods back outside the cage. "By my count, we still have the assistant and the other bodyguard to contend with. Care to do the honours with the Chelsea woman? You seemed interested in precisely that a few minutes ago."  
  
She swings the paddle towards Utkin, who flinches, pulling on the chains violently as if to stave off the blow, and Irene chuckles low in her throat. "You have two choices, Mr. Utkin. Either you name a body part that I will break in the most painfully efficient way possible, or you give me the name of the woman with the medical file who came to you."

 

He pulls a larger paddle, this one wooden with the word _папа_ or _Daddy_ hollowed out of it. The wood's wear shows regular signs of use. He's reminded that Utkin liked to torture with paddles like this regularly, to the point where this became a nickname.  
  
Sherlock thinks about Lorrin Chelsea, and decides that he has no interest in her at all. Torturing or killing her would be nothing but a waste of time and bullets, and they'll need both to get out of here later.  
  
Utkin wails. "No---" he sobs.  
  
"Sounded like 'nose', to me," Sherlock says.  
  
"No!"   
  
It's a woman's voice, high-pitched, and Lorrin Chelsea rushes towards them, a paddle from the wall in hand. Sherlock swings with the heavy wooden one in his hand, and it lands directly in the center of the woman's face. He hears bone break, her skull, and she falls back, instantly, dead.  
  
Sherlock looks up to the Woman. "Non-fatal," he teases.

 

The sharp crack of the heavy wooden paddle echoes in the room ominously as the Chelsea woman falls like a brick, clearly dead. Irene lets the silence linger for a long moment, allowing Utkin to stare down, wide-eyed and fearful, at his former assistant. Irene swaps the paddle into her left hand, the stiletto knife into her right, and turns her attention away from Utkin back to Sherlock.

"Show-off," she retorts, a small smirk at the corner of her mouth.

She takes another step towards Utkin then, the stiletto in her right hand. She traces it lightly along Utkin's uninjured shoulder, causing the man to sway back, too out of breath at the moment to pull back as violently as he had before. "Fortunately for you, breaking your nose would hamper your ability to enunciate," she says casually, trailing the knife now along his side. She applies pressure, and the fabric of the bound man's shirt begins to part. A little more pressure and his skin does the same, a slowly widening cut just below his ribs.

To an observant eye, there is no mistaking the placement of the cut, mirroring precisely where Utkin had inflicted his first swing, right along the same line on Sherlock's side, where the old wound from Kotor still lingered.

"The name of your contact, Mr. Utkin. I don't believe I have to tell you how painful the blow will feel against a fresh open wound."

 

There's silence, and then Utkin stares at the body of Lorrin Chelsea for a long moment. Sherlock wonders if they were lovers, but decides from Lorrin's admiration of the man that no, they probably weren't. She admired him too much to be sexually active with him. It might've been something she thought she wanted, but not something she had.  
  
"Tatyana," Utkin says, finally. "Her name was Tatyana. She had files. That's all I know, please."  
  
"An alias," Sherlock says.

 

"But a distinctive alias," Irene answers, stepping back from Utkin, as if his revelation had somehow appeased her. The man slumps immediately, going boneless with relief that she does not strike him again. She would have sneered at his reaction if she were not more interested in his revelation.  
  
"Tatyana," she repeats, rolling the name around on her tongue, her fingers tapping along the paddle's handle. "An alias to match the region. A woman who wants to be certain she is known to be a woman."  
  
She turns to look at Sherlock, her eyes sweeping him from head to toe, and turns back to Utkin, without warning swinging the paddle into his side, blood blooming along the knife wound at her strike. His sharp, surprised cry is satisfying, though not enough to save him.  
  
"Well now, you've earned yourself a reward. For that bit of knowledge, I'll only have you killed rather than gutted to watch yourself bleed to death." Another look back at Sherlock. "Unless you'd prefer to do the honours?"

 

Utkin cries out, and Sherlock steps away from the wailing, panicked man. He reaches into the pocket of the guard, where his gun is tucked away. A far simpler death than the knife, more humane.  
  
And oddly enough, he doesn't feel like Utkin deserves it. What would John say? John would want him to go to jail, of course, but even Sherlock knows that Utkin won't stay there. Too many connections. It'll be months, and he'll be back to torturing young prostitutes in rooms like this. Or hunting down the Woman.  
  
"It's your web," he says. "You decide."

 

His answer surprises her, but Irene looks thoughtful, then pleased, as she considers his answer. The simple words should not please her so much, his acknowledgment that Moriarty's web was already hers. Hers regardless of whether she was given a certain map.   
  
But that particular bit of warmth isn't enough to temper her anger, not at the Russian trafficker. No, in Irene's mind the man was already dead. "Pity, Nicolai," she tsks, walking around the bound man until she stood behind him. He strained against his bonds, as if an inch of distance between him and her hand would save him. Irene leans in close, and her voice is low as she set the stiletto blade against Utkin's neck, her lips at his ear as she digs the tip of the knife in, slowly opening his throat.  
  
"You were dead the moment you laid a finger on what was mine."

 


	18. The Last Strand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes have killed many people during their holiday, few of them with remorse. But this one last murder changes everything between them...

As far as death goes, it is a clean, quick one, even as the man attempts to gasp, to cry out as he gurgles, as blood spills, and Irene steps back with absolutely nothing but vindictive cruelty in her face.

 

If Sherlock hears the Woman's words, he doesn't say anything to them. He checks the weapon in his hand, and pulls the mobile from the pocket of one of the guards. There are still two more at the door waiting for them, but they are easily dispatched of.  
  
He turns to the Woman, watching the vindictive cruelty on her face as she stares at Utkin's dying body.  
  
They are not kind people, he and the Woman. Anyone who might think that they might be were sorely mistaken, or simply didn't understand them. No, Sherlock could see the cruel, cold heart that beat beneath her breast, and he knew, in many ways, she mirrored his in her viciousness.  
  
He could have her right now. He'll wait, but he could.  
  
"We've had more difficult dates," he says, rolling his sore shoulder.

 

There is blood on her hands, blood on the knife, but her dress's deep red fabric will hide it all, long enough to make it to the Baltschug Kempinski. Her original plan of leaving would have to be amended, to allow for time to clean up, to return to pristine.  
  
"We've both taken worse," she agrees, stepping away from the chained dead man, back towards Sherlock. Irene wipes her hand on the fabric of her dress and reaches for him, her fingers landing on his shoulder, against the still-healing gunshot wound even as her attention appears to be drawn to the last bodyguard, still alive but crumpled in a heap on the ground.  
  
"The knife or a bullet for the guard?" she asks, her fingers running lightly over the fabric of his shirt. It is a light, almost idle, casually careless touch, but it allows her to feel for blood, for broken skin, nonetheless. "Either will mark the assistant's death as an anomaly."

 

He glances behind them, to the bottleneck of the hallway they went up.  
  
"Gunshot will draw the other two up the stairs," he says.

 

The touch is enough to satisfy her, and Irene lets her hand fall to her side. She looks back, considers the bottleneck of the hall, considers the scene that currently appears, and how the addition of two more bodies would change it.  
  
She nods, drops Utkin's paddle, and picks up the taser she had abandoned earlier. "They'll have to come through one at a time," she remarks. "Minimizes the risk that one might run. I'd say you've convinced me, Mr. Holmes, but then you'd never let me live it down."

 

It's his turn to initiate touch, to trace a hand down her arm, where the blood splatter goes down from where she'd killed two men in as many minutes. Vicious creatures, they are. Together, they cause so much destruction.  
  
"Of course I won't," he replies, his lips turning in a small half-smile.  
  
He points the gun to the head of the unconscious guard.  
  
"Ready?"

 

Irene has to repress a shiver at the light touch of his hand down her arm, smearing the splatters of blood against her skin and now clinging to his fingertips. Their sentiment might make them ordinary, make them _care_ about something, some _one_ other than their own gains, but despite their sentiment they are vicious creatures who discuss the murder of paid guards as casually as any other couple would discuss the restaurant they would go to for dinner.   
  
She smiles at the thought and twines her fingers briefly with his, stepping out of direct line of sight of the doorway, her finger on the button of the taser, just in case either of the guards that would come running were either particularly smart or idiotic.   
  
"Ready."

 

He doesn't hesitate. He pulls the trigger of the gun, and takes a step back in the opposite direction of the Woman, out of the door's line of sight, raising the gun up to take aim. Her taser has a shorter range. She can get the first to come through the door, he'll kill the second.  
  
The response takes only a matter of seconds. The two men come rushing to the door, and the army-trained man raises his hand to stop the first from entering the door just as it's too late.

 

The first man who presents a silhouette in the door is the man with the weak right knee, and Irene aims the taser accordingly, taking the shot as soon as it presents itself. The barbs of the taser hit him square in the chest and he convulses as electricity courses through him.  
  
Unfortunately, the man's trigger discipline is lax, clearly not army-trained, and his convulsing grip on the trigger sets off his weapon once, the bullet ricocheting as he falls to the ground, twitching.

 

The ricocheted bullet misses, but Sherlock can feel something hot burn his cheek. He ignores it, focusing on the doorway.  
  
The army-trained guard behind sees the man convulse, and he drops, but not fast enough. He doesn't expect a gun. Sherlock's hand is steady, and he aims for center mass. His aim isn't as good as John Watson's might've been, and he misses with the first shot. The guard pulls out his gun, and Sherlock fires again. His bullet hits the guard in the throat and he falls backwards.  
  
"Woman?" he calls to her.

 

"No worse for wear," she answers. She drops the taser, and as she does notices the beginnings of a band of blossoming bruises at her wrist. The first guard, no doubt, while holding her back.   
  
Irene steps forward to where the two guards have fallen, and carefully pulls the taser barbs out of the first guard. Still breathing, but that was easily remedied. She buries the stiletto in his throat, then steps over the body to pick up her heels from where she'd abandoned them earlier to make a quiet entrance.   
  
"Yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

 

His face stings and he reaches up, finding wet blood there. The ricocheted bullet. He ignores it and follows her. In his mind, he snips the segment of the web that has Utkin on it. A poisonous piece gone. Nothing of value lost, not for her.  
  
He steps over to the body, watching as the blood spills out, staining the concrete floor.  
  
 _That's it._ It's over.  
  
They finished what they started.

 

The last man dies quietly, and as his breathing stops, the empty warehouse is all but silent with nothing but her own breathing and the sound of familiar footsteps coming up behind her.  
  
The last of the guards are dead, Utkin's knowledge dead with him. Irene waits for the knot of tension in her stomach to loosen, but it does not and she realizes as she steps into her shoes that this had been the last strand of Moriarty's web. He had said so himself, that it was _her_ web. That she herself had considered this last one a parting gift to him.  
  
She looks up, and Irene refuses to acknowledge the knot of tension that refuses to fade. She looks past him, into the room of the dead, and only then to him.  
  
"Back to Baker Street then," she says, tucking the stiletto back in her garter, ignoring the blood she smears onto the dress, ignoring the way the knot of tension in her stomach threatens to migrate to her throat. She wills it away, keeps her words light, as if they were speaking of nothing but the weather.   
  
"Just in time for a London winter."

 

"The only part important to remember about history," Sherlock says. "Avoiding Russia in the wintertime."  
  
They've just killed six people. They've murdered them, and they're standing in the same building as their corpses, and the only thing Sherlock can feel is the burning on his face and the strange twisty hollow sensation right above his stomach.  
  
It's over. The holiday is officially over. They're going to leave for the hotel. He's going to give her the map, and change into his outfit for Serbia, and he's going to leave her.  
  
And things will be different.  
  
He doesn't want---but they have to---and he doesn't _want_ \---  
  
"Shall we?"

 

She wants to reach for him, wants the feel of his hand running along her arm that threatened to send shivers down her spine just a few moments ago, wants to feel his shoulder beneath her fingers like she had reached for him. But she doesn't, and feels appallingly empty for it. She wonders idly how a single knife to one man's throat could mark the end of their holiday so thoroughly, how such an idiotic thing, which she had done twice before the last guard tonight, could still make things so palpably _different_.  
  
She nods, and does not look at him as she heads for the door they had been lead through. She moderates her pace, staying within arm's reach but not touching. Her mind gnaws at her to think of what is next, to plan where she will go next, to consider flights and safe houses and to contact the woman called Sibyl Vane.  
  
She knows those are things that should be thought of, should be considered now, but for once Irene Adler does not think of them, and instead forces herself to think of nothing at all. To simply take a step at a time, her heels clicking slow and deliberate along the concrete floor.

 

"Wait," he says. He shrugs off his expensive coat, offering it to her, gesturing at the blood on her arms.  
  
"We'll need to get back into the hotel. I'm not nearly so worse for wear."  
  
There's a blossom of red on his shoulder from the beating, but it isn't so bad, not really. Something easily explained away in a fall, or an overzealous night at the bar. Her arms aren't so easily explained away.

 

She looks at him for a long moment, then at the coat he offers, and a small, wry smile tugs at her mouth. "We used your coat in Kotor too," she remarks, taking the coat, careful to do so without smearing blood onto the fabric or touching his hand.  
  
The sound of her own voice is strange to her ears, the remark calm, casual, as if it were something that had happened ages ago. Had she found him in Montenegro so long ago? It feels like it.  
  
Irene carefully drapes the coat over her shoulders and feels the warmth of his body lingering in it. "To hide the blood when you had yourself stabbed."

 

He puts a hand to his back, where the muscle is, once again, tender.  
  
"It wasn't really my coat," he admitted. "You and I have only worn our clothes once since this holiday began. Me in Hong Kong. You in Montreal."  
  
It's time, he's trying to tell himself. It's time to be himself again. To stop being---to stop being the Woman's _boyfriend_. Because that's not what they are. They are themselves, and separation is what will keep them that way.

 

She is not certain whether she should be angry or envy him, to remain so carefully removed as they walk out of the warehouse. She pulls the coat closer around her and turns to face him again, takes a deliberate step into his personal space. Because she needs to know, needs to _see_ for herself that he is not as removed as he tries to appear.  
  
"We've worn our share of disguises" she admits, her chin high as she steps close, as she holds the coat around herself, the lingering warmth in the coat armour against the radiant heat from his body, "But I've told you before, Mr. Holmes, that disguises are self-portraits."  
  
And before she can decide that this is an absolutely idiotic thing to do, Irene closes the last of the distance between them and presses her mouth to his.  
  
To see for herself whether or not he had removed himself as much as he wished to appear.

 

She is testing him, he thinks. She's pressing the limits of the boundaries he's set up for himself. Go back to the hotel, give her the map, change, _leave_. These are the plans. These are---  
  
And her mouth is on his, and he lets the boundary crumble. He lifts his hands up, cupping her face and returning the kiss deeply, desperately. Holding onto what they have left, holding onto this holiday that's _theirs_ , that they made for each other.  
  
It's so quiet, here at the end. The warehouse is silent around them. No music or bustling city as their background. Just the thrumming of Sherlock's own heartbeat in his ears.

 

Her own grip on his coat loosens as his hands cup her face, as he returns the kiss that was supposed to have been a test with the same desperate fervor that she refused to believe she felt. But that is a lie and self-denial is only so attractive when she knows this is the last of it, that this is the end of their holiday, of the time they have carved out of their respective deaths.  
  
Her grip on the coat loosens, and Irene finds herself reaching for him, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him to her as she kisses him back as if she can pull him into herself. "The hotel," she says, her voice breathless against his lips. "Let's have dinner."

 

He should say no. He should stick to the plan he planned. He shouldn't stray into sentimentality. He shouldn't stray away from what he planned. Hotel, map, change, _leave_. It's his plan; he planned it.  
  
But _God_ , her voice is breathless against his mouth and he already knows his answer before he says it. Before he utterly betrays his cool, uncaring facade.  
  
" _God, yes,_ " he purrs, before he kisses her again.  
  
Neither of them notice the dark-haired woman in the warehouse down the block with the long-range scope, taking photographs of the kissing couple. Gathering information.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up! We should be back to our normally scheduled weekend posts next week. That just means a shorter wait for chapter 19, right?


	19. Unforgettable (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Jim Moriarty's web effectively destroyed and the rest ready for Irene Adler's ascendancy, there is little death left in Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes' holiday, a matter of hours where there had before been months, weeks. But they intend to take full advantage of said hours before both must return to life again.

The Hotel Baltschug Kempinski is in the very heart of Moscow, overlooking the Kremlin and Red Square and, at any other time, Irene knows she would play, would spend hours watching the politicians come and go from the area and turn their secrets into her coinage, into knives against their throats and power in her palm. Any other time.  
  
Tonight she could care less what the idiotic politicians and their fragile houses of cards wanted, tonight she was more concerned with other things, she has a ticking clock on her mind, ticking away the minutes and hours of a holiday that will not last and that she refuses to give up. She has blood on her hands and blood pounding under her skin, and Sherlock Holmes by her side, a last moment free of the necessities of being the dominatrix (the soon-to-be consulting criminal) and the consulting detective, a last indulgence to partake in.  
  
It is, perhaps, why the town car skids to a halt outside the Baltschug Kempinski with a squeal of tires as she kills the engine and takes the keys (stolen from the now-dead driver, his body also left at the warehouse) out of the ignition. The valet is confused and will take another fifteen seconds to regain his bearings, to realize he has not in fact been run over by the luxury town car, and approach. Another thirty seconds before he opens the door politely.  
  
That was thirty seconds she planned on using to its full potential.  
  
Irene leans over the control console and grabs Sherlock by his collar, arching herself to press another kiss to his mouth, nipping at his lower lip as she contorts her body around said console.

 

Every second counts. Sherlock Holmes has spent the entirety of the drive staring at the Woman---at Irene Adler. Staring at her, memorizing everything about her, boring her into his mind. At some point, he might want to forget her, but he won't be able to. So he refuses to have some part of his mind forget any detail, get any aspect of her wrong.  
  
He stares at her like she's the sun and he wants to go blind.  
  
The car skids to a stop and he doesn't stop staring. She leans over, and only then does he allow his eyes to close as she leans in to kiss him, so he can focus on the way her mouth feels against his. He doesn't care how little time they have left, he tells himself. He only wants to care about now.

 

He tastes of mystery and stale cigarettes, of the ghost of nicotine and the spark of challenge. And perhaps it is the knowledge that this is the end of their holiday that makes her feel this so intensely, that makes a kiss like touching a spark to gunpowder. She'd like to believe that, that it is simply the circumstance that makes desire race down her spine. That it is not also the fact that they are who they are, that he is Sherlock Holmes and she is Irene Adler and they are the only two people in the world who understand each other in this way, that coaxes the soft moan from her lips as the handle on the passenger side door clicks, as the valet opens it.  
  
"If all you wanted to do was look," she murmurs against his mouth, lingering before pulling away, "Perhaps I should have simply left you with a photograph."

 

He doesn't respond, simply reaches for his door. He didn't argue about who would drive, preferring to focus on her than the way back to the hotel. He doesn't argue now. He knows she _likes_ arguing, and he does, too, but he can't think to waste the time.  
  
He steps outside of the car and heads for the door, pausing only long enough for the Woman to follow behind. He'll send for the package at the front counter later. He simply pulls out a credit card pilfered from Utkin and throws it on the counter.  
  
"Princess Suite," Sherlock says, his Russian brusque. "Two weeks. Send the package for S. Holmes up in a few hours with dinner, when we order it."  
  
The woman at the counter nods. "That will be 1,050,000 rubles, sir."  
  
"Pay it in advance."  
  
His attitude promotes speed, and his room card is handed to him promptly. He turns back to the Woman and offers her his arm. No character. No pretend. Just Sherlock Holmes.

 

The valet looks as if he is about to swallow his tongue at the way Irene leaves the car, her hair disheveled, the long slit in her dress hiked up from twisting around the console. She tosses him the keys to the car and he manages to catch them on the second try, but by then she is already past the doors, sweeping into the hotel lobby merely steps behind Sherlock.  
  
His instructions to the receptionist are brusque, utterly Sherlock Holmes despite his lack of coat, and Irene finds herself smiling as the receptionist obeys. She knows that they will not stay for two weeks, that it is meant to throw off Mycroft Holmes, to ensure they are not disturbed, but a part of her cannot help but think how very much they could accomplish in two weeks, ensconced in a hotel room. There would have to be a game beforehand, of course, otherwise two weeks alone they would kill each other.  
  
"Bring up the boxes sent here for 'Galatea' when you send up the rest," she orders the receptionist in crisp, commanding English as she takes his arm. Her voice is her own again, all British upper class and the dominatrix's steel. She keeps a seemingly decorous distance as she takes his arm, but her fingers trace a vein against the inside of his arm, and her body presses against his with every other step, teasing one moment and away the next, as she leads them towards the lift, every inch of her Irene Adler, nothing more.

 

He reaches out for the lift button and it opens, revealing the empty lift for the two of them. Sherlock doesn't hesitate, stepping inside and pressing the button for their floor. He is acutely aware of her gentle touch to the inside of his arm.  
  
The closing lift doors offer them, again, moments of privacy. Moments he doesn't intend to waste.  
  
The instant the doors are shut, he spins to face her and moves his mouth to her neck, tracing his arms down her side, pulling her closer to him. Time, time. It was the one thing they had so much of, before. They had it, then, and it's gone, now. Now, they have deadlines and buses to meet and no time. No time, and desire.

 

He is unbelievably warm against her, pulled close, pulled flush against her body, and Irene lets her head fall back, giving him better access to the delicate, sensitive skin at her throat. Seconds, minutes, hours. Has their holiday gone so fast that the days that had stretched into weeks and months have become hours and minutes and seconds?  
  
Her own hands trace along his body, nails raking along his side and back through the well-cut cloth. Her touch is noticeably lighter as her nails ghost over the wound in his shoulder, over the fading cut in his side, and Irene cannot help the laugh that bubbles up twined with a moan of pleasure as she pushes back against him to pin him to the wall of the lift as he pulls her closer to him.  
  
"Let's have dinner."

 

"You don't mean food," he murmurs, feeling his back press against the wall. "You never did."  
  
And what a revelation that was. He kisses her again, only vaguely aware of the sound of the lift opening to their floor.  
  
She smells like Casmir and blood. He wraps an arm around her buttocks and attempts to lift her, to pull her up to him, into him. Their holiday is ending but this, _this_ he can remember. They have each other, now, and this indulgence. This allowance they _deserve._

 

Her laugh in response is swallowed up by his lips on hers, by another kiss that she returns and deepens. She can feel his arm around her back, to lift her up against him, and she wraps her arms around his neck in response, to ease back and wrap her leg around his waist to facilitate the motion.  
  
"Not with you," she agrees, only vaguely aware, vaguely _caring_ that the lift has stopped, that they have arrived on their floor. The hotel room is only relevant in one way, at the moment, as a place for _this_ , for this indulgence where they are simply Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, this indulgence where they are simply and utterly themselves.  
  
"With you, food would be boring."

 

"Food is always boring," he counters.  
  
The door to the lift starts to close, and he shoots out an arm to stop it. They should exit, go to their room, and he should undress her as quickly as humanly possible. Not because he is unaware of what lies beneath her clothing, but because he needs to memorize it, in the same way he memorized her face.  
  
"Shall we?"

 

"You didn't find whipped cream and caramel _boring_ in Montreal," she retorts, tightening her grip around his neck as she wraps both legs around his hips, careless of how scandalously high the slit on her bloodied dress is riding as she shifts deliberately against his front.  
  
Irene leans in closer, and traces her tongue along the curve of his ear, her words little more than a warm breath, the mere suggestion of a whisper. She is wrapped thoroughly around him, and if he wishes to leave the elevator, she is not one to stop him.  
  
"I'm game if you are."

 

"Always," he murmurs.  
  
Her tongue along his ear sends sparks of pleasure down his spine, and he considers the logistics of just _carrying_ her to the hotel room.  
  
Hiding, their covers in place, time on their side, he might've brushed aside the option of carrying her. Sherlock Holmes, more focused on having the Woman now, would ignore that for the sake of what he wants. He lifts her, and takes a step towards the door, a smirk on his face.

 

He lifts her and begins moving out of the lift, and in response Irene smiles, nips at his earlobe in approval as she eases one arm from around his neck to run down his side, to slip her hand into his pocket. The motion shrugs his coat from Irene's shoulder, baring one arm, but she is far too interested in trailing a line of kisses from his ear down his jaw, to tease, to distract him as he makes their way to their suite.  
  
Her fingers close around the key card in his pocket and Irene nips at his jaw sharply. "Good. I'd expect nothing less, Mr. Holmes."

 

Her lips against his earlobe are distracting, diverting. He tries to recall every time she's touched him like this, invoked this sensation. Called up this desire. He can't. He can't remember anything but now.  
  
He cares about what she's doing, about what she's going for in his pocket, but he's more interested in the room, in getting them somewhere private, somewhere alone. It's not far from the lift and he holds onto her as he heads towards the room. He gets to the door and presses her against it, focusing on kissing her neck as well.  
  
"I wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if I gave up on a game, now would I, Woman?"

 

He presses her against a door, and Irene can only assume it is the door of their hotel room, because her senses are too full of him, too aware of the wood against her back, of his body against hers and his lips at her throat to move, to check the door number. Instead, she arches into him, offering him better access to her neck, her hips moving against his body in small deliberate circles, as she lifts the key card from his pocket, as she blindly feels for the door.  
  
It takes two tries for her to insert the key card, but she's rewarded by the quiet beep of the lock as it accepts the card, and the door unlocks.  
  
Her voice is breathless, gasping, as she answers, "No, and I wouldn't be Irene Adler if I didn't try to beat you."

 

His hand lowers to hers, at first curling around her wrist, fingers to her pulse. The way he beat her, the second time they played their game. She beat him the first, and then, throughout this holiday, they've beaten each other over and over again. He presses his fingertips there, and then slides his hand down to the knob, where he turns the door to open it, to their privacy.  
  
The Princess Suite of the Baltschug Kempinski is the height of luxury. Yellow, floral wallpaper decorate a luxuriously furnished suite, with a sitting room and bedroom, and delicately floral draperies with large rope holders open up over Moscow, showing off the city's beautiful sights. There's antiqued furniture, and a large, plush king sized bed with white linens and a plethora of pillows for the ultimate in royal treatment.  
  
Sherlock doesn't see any of them. He only sees _her_ , the Woman. He shuts the door and kisses her again.

 

The touch of his fingers curling around her wrist is a more intimate touch than their kisses. It is truth in chemistry and undeniable biology when they are more comfortable spinning lies. It is a reminder of triumph and humiliation, more than just a rapid beat beneath her skin, and a promise that it is a knife that cuts both ways.  
  
Irene smiles as she feels more than hears the door close behind them, and she sheds the coat covering her blood-spattered arms in a careless heap in the entry way the second the door clicks shut. She eases her grip around his shoulders, and tangles her hand in his hair, tightening her fingers into the dark curls, dragging his mouth away from hers to bare his neck to her, to press her lips against the rapid pulse beating at his throat.  
  
She will remember all of this, will remember the way he kisses her as if to memorize every touch, will remember the rough grip of his hand against her buttocks, against her hips, but this will be the thing she remembers most, the taste of his skin under her tongue, the racing pulse beneath her mouth that puts lie to their mutual lies.  
  
The key card for the room falls out of her hand and Irene cannot find it in her to care, instead reaching up not to undo the top button on his shirt but to snap the button from its threads. After all, once she leaves she won't return. All that matters is _now_.

 

Indulgence is a matter of taking one's time, enjoying something slowly. But not in this. In this, he wants it, wants them, _now_. Time was for before, for then. For when he could experiment in a closet in Kotor, could undress slowly before her in Las Vegas, could---  
  
Now. All they have is now.  
  
He breathes the word _Woman_ at the feel of her mouth on his throat, at the way it causes his body to react. He traces his hands up the slit in her dress, gently digging his nails against her skin. She's buried herself in the inner layers of his epidermis, deep within his Mind Palace. It's unfair he can't do the same.

 

His hands against her skin, sliding up the slit in her dress, sends a jolt of pure, electric _want_ down her spine, and coupled with the way he gasps at the feel of her mouth pulling at his throat it is absolutely intoxicating, and Irene rips another button off his shirt, letting the button fall carelessly through her fingers.  
  
She does not have nearly enough leverage in this position to make him do as she wills, but she shifts against him anyway, using her limited mobility to urge him on with her hips. "Bed. Now," she manages to gasp, feeling his nails digging into her skin.  
  
Or any of the sofas in the opulent suite. Or the round dining table. Or the low sideboard. Any surface would do, as long as they made it _soon_.

 

He could just as well have her against the wall, if she'd be up for it, but she instructs _bed_ , and he moves to carry her there. Her movements, her gasps, her body---all of it has made to arouse him completely. One final indulgence. Indulgence, no time. How unfair.  
  
He steps into the bedroom, moving to the bed, and then turning, so he's the one to fall back onto the bed, with her on top.  
  
Not that he's giving control to the Woman, of course.  
  
Just offering himself a better view. Or so he tells himself.

 


	20. The Seductive Promise of Control (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baltschug Kempinski is Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes' last stop, the last moments of a holiday that has made them both more dangerous and more themselves. But how far will they go to mark each other, one last time?

Irene falls onto the bed on top of him with a gasp, a laugh, a quiet exhalation of pure pleasure at his maneuver, and immediately moves to straddle him properly, moving her hands along his arms until she catches his wrists, to pull them away from her body and pin them over his head.  
  
Her eyes are bright as she looks down at him, fever bright and darkly dilated, her hair loose and tumbling down her back, over her shoulders. "Better," she purrs approvingly, writhing against him as she leans in to nip at his earlobe again, tightening her grip on his wrists.

 

He grins up at her, his arms pinned above his head as she leans in to nibble at his earlobe. There is something lovely about being at the Woman's mercy. Something _indulgent_ and decadent, and something he would never have allowed prior to this holiday. But he's learned that sometimes, when she's in control, he's not _losing_. Not really.  
  
And, _God_ , the word _sexy_ isn't enough to define her, with her hair loose and her eyes dark like that. It reminds him of that time, so long ago, before the fireplace at Baker Street. Her, leaning towards him, seducing him with nothing but simple words and her presence. And he, trying desperately to stay with the case, to keep away from the seduction. And failing.  
  
He lifts his hips up as she moves against him.

 

He moves with her, against her, in direct counterpoint to the way she writhes to tease him, and his motion makes her draw in a sharp breath, makes her gasp in something that is not quite surprise because she expects him to play the game but that is still unexpected. She nips at his ear again the sensitive skin caught between her teeth as she growls low in her throat, warm and wanting.  
  
"Are you trying to distract me, Mr. Holmes?" she demands. She transfers the grip of both of his wrists to one hand and lets the nails of her now-free hand drag a long slow path down his wrist, tracing the line of a vein. It is a less secure grip, one that he can break out of easily despite the way she compensates by leaning more of her weight above him, but the ability to do more, to run her nails along him, is well worth the risk.  
  
The intended path of her nails is interrupted by the button on his shirt cuff, and she rips that off the shirt as well, flicking it off onto the carpet carelessly before she continues down the length of his arm.

 

Her teeth return to his ear, and he doesn't even attempt to hold in a low moan at the sensation. Pain and pleasure, it's what the Woman has always brought him.  
  
If she expects him to fight back at this exact moment, she is sorely mistaken. He is far too enraptured in watching her, in allowing her to take control, to do what it is she does best. He moves with her as she tears the button off his shirt, not even bothering to watch as she flicks it to the side. It isn't important. _She_ is important. _This_ is important. It's what they have left of their holiday.  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it," he lies. He'll regain use of his arms again soon enough. When she least expects it.

 

Irene Adler is used to being worshipped, to being adored and begged for by men and women alike whom she held at arm's length, whose desire for her is matched by her untouchability. But this, this is different in a way that she is not certain he understands, in a way that is almost painfully vulnerable even as desire knots in her stomach like a physical ache.  
  
This is desire mirrored and reflected, this is indulgence in a way that entangles her, that refuses to allow her to be removed. And it is heady and intoxicating as well as dangerous. Which was perhaps why she adores it. Why they both find themselves so utterly drawn to it, to each other. To the challenge and the possibility of losing.  
  
"No?" she asks, her nails trailing along his shirt again, down his arm, returning to the buttons on the shirt front, the two that had already been torn off, and she begins on the third. Despite the tailor's skill, the buttons snap off the shirt with little difficulty, leaving minute tears in the fabric. It is more than undressing him, more than indulging in the methodical. She tears into the shirt in the same way she wants to dig into him, to rip them both apart until she is certain she has worked herself into him as thoroughly as he has her.  
  
It is indulgence and goodbye and the desire to mark him, to leave a mark on Sherlock Holmes that even the guise of the unfeeling machine cannot completely hide. She writhes against him again, the motion rucking up the long blood-splattered skirt she still wore. "And what if I _want_ you to dream of it? To dream of _this_?" she asks, sending another button off into the carpet.

 

"Dreaming is a useless dump of subconscious information," Sherlock responds, immediately. "I have no intention of ever _dreaming_ of you."  
  
He breaks the grip she has on his wrists quickly, moving to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her down to him, to press his mouth to hers. To surprise her, to challenge her, to memorize her, whatever it is they need right now. But never to _possess her_. No, Sherlock would never be so stupid to think he could ever truly possess the Woman. Even with her lips swollen from his kisses and her body pregnant with his child, she is _always_ entirely her own.  
  
He would have her no other way.  
  
His next words are against her lips. "I'll give you a whole room in my Mind Palace."

 

She is surprised by him, by the way he pulls her to him, the way he compliments her with his response. She kisses him back, crushing her mouth to his, wanting to bruise his lips as she is certain he is bruising hers. She deepens the kiss, tastes him on her tongue, savours the sensation, the thought, the feel of his arms around her holding her close, the way his mouth moves under hers, the way his shirt feels crushed against her.  
  
"You say that as if I'd be content to stay in one room in your mind palace," she answers, untucking his shirt and ripping a few more buttons from their place. "You'll find me in places you won't expect. I know I will."  
  
Yes she will tell herself that she's locked this holiday, this indulgence away, boxed it tight and set it on a high shelf in her mind, but she knows it will be a lie, even without the bundle of cells she's termed the Inconvenience growing inside her, she knows she will not be able to shake him thoroughly, that she will always be the addict.

 

One hand goes up to unzip her dress as the other holds her close to him. It won't be long before he relinquishes control again, and he intends to take advantage for as long as he can.  
  
She's right. Of course she is. She'll appear during cases, he imagines. Strut in in those high heels and distract him while he's busy. Announce herself with nothing but the smell of Casmir and destruction, or the _tut-tut_ of disappointment in his deductions.  
  
She's going to infuriate him in his Mind Palace.  
  
He'll love and loathe it in equal measures.  
  
He moans again against her mouth as he moves his hips again against her, both in anticipation and enjoying the delay, the longing of it all. Savoring the minutes they have.

 

He moans against her mouth and she cannot help, does not _want_ to suppress, the shudder that runs through her at the sound, at the knowledge that she has gotten so far under his skin that he will shed the guise of the consulting detective for this indulgence. Her dress parts with a sigh of the zipper, and the cool air of the room is a faint caress against her skin as the dress loosens, as a strap slides off her shoulder.  
  
She purrs back her approval as he moves against her and Irene pushes his shirt open, rakes her nails against his chest, following the path again with light fingertips. "How many surfaces in this room are there that would bear our combined weight, Mr. Holmes?" she asks, attempting to sound casual despite the breathlessness in her voice.

 

He pauses for half a second to consider the question.  
  
"Not including the walls and floor and including the sitting room," he says. "28."  
  
If only there were time to try all of them right now.  
  
This, he imagines, will be their future holidays. Some mystery, some adventure, but mostly allowance of indulgence. Retreating into a place where they can shed their disguises, including the ones they wear every day, and be together. Sexually and otherwise.  
  
He'll always allot more time. It's something he privately promises himself, as he leans forward to taste her collarbone, to trace its shape with his mouth. He'll never let the time become so tight that he has to consider only a few weight bearing objects as an option.

 

It is the fact that he has to pause for half a second to answer the question that sends a thrill down Irene' spine, and the fact that he _does_ answer the question that turns the in-drawn breath at his mouth tracing along her collarbone into a true gasp of pleasure.  
  
Because he has not stopped thinking, because he is Sherlock Holmes, because he is distracted from said thinking for long enough that his answer is not immediately on his tongue.  
  
He leans forward and Irene drags her hand along his chest again, five long scratches blooming against his pale skin.  
  
"28 weight-bearing surfaces," she considers as she pulls at the shirt he still wears, as she pulls it off him for better access. She is careful when she eases it off his wounded shoulder, significantly less so when she pulls it off his other arm. She grinds against him as his mouth lingers along a particularly sensitive spot along her collar.  
  
"Rather a shame to start with the bed."

 

He moves with her, allowing his shirt to come off, even though he knows it allows more skin open for her ministrations and scratches. Or, perhaps, _because_ of this. One, or the other.  
  
"Mmmm," he agrees. He nods to the windowsill. "The ropes there look...usable."  
  
Not that he enjoyed Stockholm.  
  
He might've enjoyed Stockholm. The push and the pull and the fight they gave each other.

 

His gesture, no, his _suggestion_ sends another shiver down Irene's spine, one that has nothing to do with the cool air or the unzipped back of her dress. Because it _is_ a suggestion, not explicitly a challenge to his pride nor is it a mutual plot. It is, for once, intimacy rather than pride.  
  
Not that she will use a light hand in intimacy rather than pride. Their mutual pride wouldn't allow that.  
  
She laughs, long and low as she kisses him again, all slow-moving lips and deep-delving tongue tasting him, memorizing the feel of him as she runs a hand down his back, three fingernails tracing deep red marks along his spine.  
  
"A proper lashing to take place of that travesty of a torture session?" she asks, easing off him to stand at the foot of the bed. Irene runs a hand through her hair, pushing the tangled, wild length of it back over her shoulders as she offers him an impetuous hand. "I do believe I like how your mind works, Mr. Holmes."

 

He can easily lift himself, but he reaches up, taking her hand. Allowing the intimacy, the touch. With his other hand, he moves to lower her dress once he's on his feet. Because he knows the moment his hands are tied, she won't give him another opportunity.  
  
"Isn't that how this all started, Woman?" he asks, with a smirk. "My brain being the new sexy and all that?"

 

His hand is warm against hers, even though her skin feels feverish, sensitized by his touch and their mutual teasing, and Irene lets her fingers ghost over his wrist, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his skin with a small, genuine smile.  
  
"Is it?" she retorts as he lowers the remaining strap on her dress. She shrugs out of it in one serpentine motion, letting it pool in a pile of bloodied red on the carpet. She still wears her nylons, black garters stark against her skin, the stiletto tucked into the right garter, and undergarments of black lace and silk.  
  
She steps carefully out of the puddle of fabric, still in her heels, and rests a hand at the small of his back, nodding towards the windows, their curtains tied open to better showcase the Kremlin in all its lit glory. "And here I thought it started because you were galled that I could be so unreadable to you."

 

"Isn't that why you appeared with no clues at all for me?" he replies, taking a step backwards, keeping his wrist in contact with her fingertips.  
  
"To be the ultimate mystery?"  
  
There is something undeniably arousing about her, standing before him with nothing but her undergarments, the knife, and the splashes of drying blood on her arms and leg. She's like a walking vision of death, and that is strangely, viciously appealing.  
  
The Queen of Criminals.

 

He steps back and his eyes are dark as she watches his gaze sweep over her, and Irene cannot help but preen a little under his scrutiny, her fingertips biting lightly into his wrist, turning slightly to favour her left side, where her wrist does not show bruises from the guard's ham-handed grip, where the lingering sprain from her fall in St. Petersburg remains out of sight, out of mind.  
  
They are selfish creatures of vanity, she thinks. That even in their intimacy and indulgence they wished to _impress_.  
  
"Brains and mystery," she agrees, and steps towards the alcove of windows, her left hand still around his wrist, pulling him with her. "Definitely the new sexy."

 

Even as she turns her body, he knows what she's covering, knows what bruises and sprains are there. And still, she turns. Still, she's _showing off_. She's so very like him in so many ways, and this is just one of them.  
  
Oddly enough, this only makes him want her more.  
  
She pulls him, and he should move at the pace he originally set for them, but his lust is rejuvenated by her actions, and he loses the rhythm, moves forward to kiss her again, to pull her back to him. She has trained him in many ways, in many ways he's far more under her thumb than he'd prefer. In others, he has no focus when it comes to his attraction for the Woman. He simply moves as he sees fit.

 

She pulls and he follows, but rather than following obediently where she leads, he follows only to pull her back to him, to press his mouth to hers for another kiss that takes her breath away. It is, perhaps, a testament to how thoroughly they have entangled each other, that now with so little time left to themselves, left to _indulge_ that they cannot abide the lack of touch.  
  
Irene's pulse is racing as she kisses him back, as she nips at his lower lip nearly hard enough to draw blood and presses her body flush to his. She arches against him and in the same motion steps backwards, pushing towards him and pulling him with her, running the hand not on his wrist up his arm, following the tracery of blood vessels, up his shoulder and along his neck until her hand tangles in his hair. Another step backwards pulling him with her, and she allows herself to indulge, to breathe deep of the scent of him, to taste mystery and nicotine on his tongue, to feel the warmth of his skin against hers and the soft curl of his hair against her fingertips.  
  
Without looking, she is certain they have reached the windows, that they are close enough that the ties holding the curtains back could be repurposed for more interesting endeavours. Her fingers tighten in his hair, and Irene draws enough of a breath to speak against his mouth.  
  
"Kne--" the rest of the command is momentarily lost in a low moan.

 


	21. The Undeniable Pleasure of Play (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seconds tick away of their holiday from death, but even with the ticking clock, the race against time to escape Mycroft Holmes, the need to be ensconced securely in her web before the Inconvenience becomes a reality, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes indulge one last time in the game that only they can play, in the heady melange of pain, pleasure, and intellectual play that they have become addicted to.

He is, as always, the illusion of control. The illusion, wrapped around a body made up entirely of impulses and desire. A fact, of course, he will never admit. If asked, he is the embodiment of control and coldness. No kindness, no sentiment, no love or desire.  
  
In moments like this, however, it falls like scales away from him.  
  
She instructs him to kneel, and midway through her instruction he falls as she tells him, moving his lips to her abdomen, to her hips, to everywhere around the lace at her waist. The illusion of complacency, as well, since she didn't instruct him to touch her at all, but he can't help but try.

 

His lips are like fire. Little jolts of electricity against her skin as he moves, as he kneels at her instruction and she can feel every inch he lowers himself against her body. It is more than just his mouth against her skin, of course, more than the press of his lips against her hip, against her abdomen, against the edge of lace at her thigh, but the promise of what his mouth could do. What he had demonstrated repeatedly that he would do given permission.  
  
She swallows back another moan, another low wanting gasp, and her hand tightens in his hair, her nails dragging along his scalp. The motion grounds her, reminds her that she would not be distracted now, that the indulgence will be so much better once she has him properly in place.  
  
She pulls at his hair, forcing his mouth away from her traitorous body and up to face her, and despite her best attempts to remain removed and implacable, the blood-splattered goddess in her judgment, there is no hiding the way her lips are bruised and swollen, the way her eyes are dark and dilated encircled by pale rings of colour, and the way her hair falls wild and disheveled across her shoulders, little red marks blooming against her pale skin from his ministrations.   
  
"You do look best on your knees when I'm the one that put you there," she says, reaching over with her free hand to the window, to where the thick, tasseled cords tie back the heavy opulent curtains. She unties one, the curtains swinging shut, and Irene lets go of his hair, running her fingers along his shoulder and down his arm for his wrist.

 

He offers her his wrist without complaint. He knows any binding she does to him will be something he will really and truly enjoy, and perhaps fight against later, just for _fun_. Because that's what they do. They play. And he's never had a playmate like the Woman before. And he never will again.  
  
She's beautiful. Her hair wild, her lips red and swollen, and her face flushed with arousal. In control, _winning_. He wants to defeat her as much as he wants her to win. That's what makes her perfect.  
  
He leans forward, pressing his lips to the lace between her legs the moment she releases his hair.

 

There are very few people in the world who would dare defy her. Fewer still who tried it and made her _enjoy_ the prospect. He was one of them, and even as he offers her his wrist, Irene considers instead letting him linger, considers instead ordering him to do exactly what he was doing rather than binding him.  
  
She's never had someone so very willing to play, so willing to obey and yet _distract_ her. She doubts she will again.  
  
Her thumb lingers over his pulse point as she brings his wrist up to the curtain ties, as she savours the feel of his lips against the damp lace knickers. She lingers for merely a handful of seconds before she begins to knot the substantial curtain tie around his wrist, firm enough to restrain but not enough to cut off circulation, with enough give to not wrench his shoulder, though the position does force his arm to be splayed out impressively.  
  
Her breathing is heavy by the time she is done with the one wrist, and she steps to the side, out of the reach of his clever mouth in order to take his other arm and do the same to the other side.

 

She moves aside, and he lets out a moan of disapproval. Her taste against his lips is exquisite, and he does love knowing what he can do with just a few ministrations of his lips. But then she's moved again, and he can't fight that, not really. He resumes his position, awaiting instruction.  
  
Impatiently.  
  
"One of these holidays, you might let me tie you up," he suggests, though he's not entirely certain what he'd do if he did.

 

She hums low in her throat at his moan, pleased at his obvious disapproval at the lack of contact. It is vindicating in some small way to know he dislikes the lack of contact as much as she does, to have proof of it despite already knowing it is true. And perhaps she gives that away too, that she dislikes the lack of contact as well, in how quickly she secures his other wrist.   
  
She checks the restraint, ensuring that despite her haste she has not let them too loose, not wanting him to find it as easy to get out of her bindings as he had in Stockholm. Finding them satisfactory, she steps in front of him again, bending her knees so that she is eye-level with him as she runs a hand down his chest, deliberately undoing his belt, slipping the length of leather out of his trouser's belt loops despite the fact that she has no plans on using it.  
  
"And let you try all my tricks on me?" she asks, leaning close until her lips are only a hairsbreadth from his. "How useful would that be, I'd outlast you every time."

 

He could lean forward easily, close the distance between them. He could capture her mouth with his, and give into his desires. But that...that would be giving into _her_ , too. And he is playing the game. They're playing the game together.  
  
"That sounds rather like a challenge, Woman," he says. "I think we can consider it a date."  
  
She slides the belt out of his trousers, and he imagines the bite of leather against his skin. She's the only one he can think of who knows how to make something striking him feel like a kiss.

 

She laughs, and it is little more than a series of warm breaths, she is close enough that it is enough to convey her anticipatory pleasure at his acceptance of the challenge. There is, after all, no one else she'd play that particular game with, no one she'd even offer the possibility of turning the tables on her.  
  
"You'll do research, I expect," she says, rising slowly, taking both the belt with her and her time to admire her handiwork, to see him splayed out on his knees before her.  
  
Yes, this is a sight she plans to remember for a _very_ long time.  
  
Her tone is carefully, deliberately casual as she ducks under the arch of his arm and the rope, to stand behind him, definitively out of reach. "Research on how best to alternate teasing and denial." She does not bother hiding the fact that she is walking away from him, towards the sideboard, the wooden cabinet's door opening, the rustle of objects within being moved about, then the door closing again. "Now that I'd enjoy seeing, I think. Sherlock Holmes researching how to beat a dominatrix at her own game."  
  
It is not long before she's standing behind him again, just to the side, too far behind for him to see if he cranes his neck, but also out of the reflection of the one window that still retains its curtain ties, that shows the Kremlin bright against Moscow night.

 

He does attempt to crane his neck, of course, but only after he has exhausted his mental capabilities in guessing what she's gone for. Lubricant? They haven't used it in the past. They wouldn't include sexual objects in a hotel room, unless one was specifically asked for. Candies? Some sort of physical stimulant? Alcohol?  
  
He turns his head back, and attempts to focus on being patient. He could easily undo the binds and go to her side now, but he wants to wait, wants to see what she has for him.  
  
"Research is, of course, the best way to understand how something works before actual experimentation," Sherlock says. "That is why pornography was invented, I assume."

 

The hiss of a match striking gives her away, though it does not reveal the fact that she brings the lit match to the wick of a long taper beeswax candle. All the characteristic bite of sulfur in the air reveals when she blows the match out is how long she's had the match lit.  
  
"Among other reasons," she allows, stepping closer. There is, of course, no hiding the lit candle when she nears him, not from her reflection in the window, nor from the heat of burning flame. Irene keeps an eye on the flame, waiting for the wax to pool substantially, to ensure the flame does not come too close to either of them. "But how _would_ you explain yourself upon getting caught indulging in pornography?"  
  
She's tweaking his ego, of course, distracting him with the offense of being so sloppy as to be _caught_ rather than focusing on what she is doing.

 

He hears the match, smells it, and then the candle. Something for the bath-goer, then, probably one of several soft, fragrant candles left for the travelers to come and enjoy a long bath. She holds it before him and he has honestly no idea what it's for. Why is she holding it out? Is she going to turn the lights out?  
  
She wouldn't use the flame against him, not really. That would cause blistering of the skin, actually _harming_ him. The threat of it might be an excellent way to play with the mind, but she wouldn't hurt him.  
  
"For a case, obviously," he says.

 

She does not lean too close, keeping a precise distance between them, a precise height the wax would fall from for melted beeswax to not cause actual damage. She reaches over with one hand, her fingertips tracing along his collarbone with a soft, feather light touch.  
  
"Mmm, the ever-present unsolved mystery," she tsks. "That's hardly an imaginative excuse."  
  
And along the opposite shoulder from her feather-light touch, she dribbles a precise drop of melted wax against his skin.

 

He realizes exactly half a second before the hot wax drops onto his skin what's about to happen. The wax feels searing, like tiny pinpricks dancing along his shoulder, so hot they're almost cold. And they harden just as instantly, tightening the tender skin around small wax balls.  
  
He lets out a sharp breath and an involuntary moan of---pleasure. Yes, it's most definitely pleasure. It's like the razor-sharp sting of her nails on his back. That pain-pleasure only she can bring.  
  
"That's----" he takes in another breath. "Unexpected."

 

His reaction, the surprised exhale and the involuntary moan, sends a jolt of pure liquid desire down her spine, and Irene has to breath deeply to steady her own voice before she can answer.  
  
"Unexpected," she agrees, her voice steady but low, warm and wanting as she runs the pad of her fingertip against the spots where the wax had landed, tender soft touches in direct contrast to the bite of hot wax. The flame continues to melt at the wax, and a larger pool forms at the tip of her candle. "But then you hardly seem inclined to struggle away."  
  
She tilts the candle again, this time letting a thin, narrow stream run down his bare back.

 

He leans his head down, shutting his eyes and focusing on the hot stream of wax as it pours down his back. It's like ice, that sharp and foreign temperature change in an isolated area. It shouldn't feel so _good_ , that sting, but she knows what she's doing, she knows how to make it feel good without actually injuring him.  
  
He gives a gentle tug on his binds, but not enough to actually break them.  
  
"Woman," he moans, again.

 

The way he moans for her, the way he leans forward to offer up his body for her and tugs on his bonds, it is better than a physical caress at making her want him, making her want to stop _playing_ and simply have him now. But part of what makes their games so intoxicating, so addictive, is the knowledge that they push each other, that they are the only ones who can push each other to their limits.   
  
And Irene knows she can wait, that she can withstand just a little more, let the delicious ache grow inside her for just a little longer before she takes him.   
  
She stands directly behind him, nudging his knees apart with her pump-clad foot, and steps close, her body a mere inch away from his as she runs her hand along his shoulder, snaking around to his front to trail along his torso. With her other hand, Irene drips a trail of drops of candle wax along his shoulder, along his arm, as her hand unzips his trousers further, her lips close to his skin, breathing him in with a smile.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" she teases, her voice low and wanting despite her attempt to remain aloof. "You know I insist on specificity when you're begging."

 

The wax runs down his shoulder, and he leans his head back, moving his mouth to her neck. From the way she's snaked around him, he sees the opportunity, the chance to take advantage.  
  
He takes in a few sharp breaths with her hands across his trousers. No, no. He's begged too often on this holiday, given in far too quickly. This is it, he reminds himself. The last indulgence on their holiday, the last time he can lean into her arms before he has to go back to being Sherlock Holmes.  
  
And when did it become that he _had_ to be Sherlock Holmes? Wasn't that what he wanted?  
  
"You'd want me to beg twice," he murmurs against her skin.

 

His mouth is warm against her neck, against the thin skin and sensitive nerves craving touch, and it is all she can do to hold still, to not move into that touch. Her hand moves up to his waistband, to trace a fingernail against the bare skin just above his waist.   
  
"I do," she agrees with a hitch in her voice. "But then you do it so well."   
  
She moves to drip another trail of wax along his arm, but her hand is just a touch unsteady, distracted, and several of the drops of wax land on her fingers holding the candle, and Irene draws a deep, sharp breath against him as the hot wax hits her skin.

 

He lets out a breath as more wax lands on his arm, and then he nips against her skin just as she takes in a breath from where she dribbles wax on herself. Ah, _ha!_ A minute advantage. Very minute, but one nonetheless. He can only attempt to move his lips upwards, to trace along the sensitive skin of her jugular, to reach the lobe of her ear.  
  
He won't break his own binds this time, and he refuses to beg. Despite how intensely aroused he is, despite how much he _wants_ to.  
  
Now. Now, they only have now. Holidays will come, he tells himself, but there is always the chance that they may not. Now, and then it's over.

 

The nip of his teeth against her skin, the bite of the hot wax against her fingers, and the growing wanting ache in the pit of her stomach are utterly distracting, and despite herself Irene cries out with a wanting wordless moan as he attempts to trace his lips along the familiar line of her jugular, to nip at the tender skin at her earlobe.  
  
"Tsk tsk, trying to distract me," she says, gasps really, attempting to recover her breath, her composure. She tries to pull away, to rise back to her feet, but her knees refuse to cooperate, and all Irene manages is to reach out, to drop more wax along his arm, following the path of the veins along the inside of his elbow, to distract him long enough to regain her composure.  
  
"It won't work."  
  
Except it is painfully obvious that it does.

 

He shudders at the delicious bite of heat on the tender inside of his elbow, and his arm jerks involuntarily at the sensation. He won't beg. He won't beg. Oh, for God's sake, he's getting deliriously close to begging.  
  
He tries to follow where she pulls away, to nip at her jaw, to pull her back in. He's a little lightheaded, and all this backwards work is only making him that much dizzier. It's wonderful.  
  
"Won't it?" he purrs.

 

He shudders beneath her, and Irene draws another deep breath, nearly swaying against him, leaning into him, as she reminds herself that _this_ is what she is trying to do, this is what she wants, wants to feel him shudder beneath her, but she refuses to let him until he's begged, because it makes their moments together so much more intense to have him beg for her, to then let him go, to have him strive to return the favour, to make her beg for him in return.  
  
She moves her arms, wraps them both around his torso, to pass the candle from right hand to left, so that she can drip wax along his unmarked arm in the same pattern as she had done to the right. "You're closer to begging than I am," she retorts, her chin all but resting on his shoulder, her position allowing him nearly unfettered access to her jaw.   
  
Still, despite the danger of distraction, she raises the candle to his left arm, letting drops of wax fall as her freed right hand traces his right arm, following the path of the now-hardened drops.  
  
She's positive that she's right, that he is closer than she is.

 

No, no, he won't allow her to be right. Even as every part of him screams for her to be right, even as he moans against her jaw at the delightful heat of the wax against his arm and her hand across the tight, sensitive skin. He wants to take her, take her now. To pull her body against his and---and---  
  
She has all of the advantage right now, of course. She can manipulate him physically, touch his sensitive nerves, and he can do nothing without breaking this little game they're playing.  
  
But he, however, knows what she _likes_.  
  
"Look at the way the bed's been made," he purrs against her jaw. "Maid is an ex-army nurse. Mid-forties at her oldest. Here for structure, probably on the advice of a therapist, considering the way the lamps are situated, perfectly aligned with the daylight."

 

He knows what she likes very _very_ well.  
  
Irene wants to ignore his words, wants to ignore his deduction and simply concentrate on making him _beg_ , but she knows as well as he does that she cannot, cannot just _ignore_ the thing that draws her to him, the deductions, the mind, the intelligence, behind the deductions.  
  
She can ignore that as well as she can stop breathing, and she pulls away from him just long enough to glance back at the bed, to see the sharp, crisp corners on the bedding, the precise alignment of the lamps, and she feels another jolt of liquid desire run down her spine, another wanting moan threatening to bubble up from her lips. The movement, at least, pulls her jaw away from his mouth, from the rough, delicious nips of his teeth against her skin.  
  
No, she won't let him distract her, won't let him _win_ even as a little part of her suggests that she should, that she has already been sentimental enough to allow him to pick that one last part of Moriarty's web to snip away as a gift why shouldn't she indulge and let him win once more just so the tight knot of desire, of growing feverish want could be satisfied?  
  
No, she won't, because she never _lets_ him win, any more than he lets her. Their games are precisely intoxicating because neither of them gives in prematurely.   
  
"So she is," Irene agrees, her own low purr breathless as she drips another narrow stream of wax along the inside of his elbow. "About 162 centimeters tall, an old injury that makes her favour her left side judging by the way the draperies have been dusted. A smoker, but not tobacco. Marijuana, and quite a bit of it. For the pain, of course."  
  
Two could play at this game.

 

"Injury from?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.  
  
God, this game could ruin him far more than the wax and the physical stimulation ever could. He feels himself leaning against his binds again, leaning towards her. Always towards, always forward. Time is irrelevant, the future is _gone_. All that matters right now is this, this between them.  
  
"Something audible, I'd say. Something that causes frequent mental noises, hence the therapist---all of the radios in the clocks are set to non-existent stations, for the white noise, the static. The radios in the hallway are all set to the same, so it wasn't just the previous owner of this room, it was the person who cleaned it. Most people don't listen to white noise for pleasure."

 

At some point during his deductions, the light traces her fingers run along the wax trails on his arm are no longer light touches but her hand grasping his arm, sliding up his wrist, the fingers guiding the carefully dripping wax curling around the candle, letting the wax run over her own fingers, the heat a painful pleasure against Irene's as his deductions threaten to undo her.  
  
"Rocket attack on an army hospital," she gasps, leaning into him, her front pressed hard against his back as he leans into her. Her mind is racing and her body is all but screaming for touch. It it absolutely brilliant. "Physically recovered except for the right side, post-traumatic stress with auditory triggers, hence the radio. Does not do well with harsh artificial lights, hence aligning the lamps with the wi---"  
  
And it is all too much, too much and not nearly enough.  
  
" _Please_."

 

" _Please._ "  
  
He gives in, breathes the word at the exact moment she does.  
  
She is more than sexuality and desire. She always has been. She is more than those things he isn't---free and contained in ways he isn't. She is brilliant in ways he isn't, too. Her mind works with an intellect that he didn't believe he could find in another person, and she _fits_ his mind, as well as her body fits against his back when he leans into her.  
  
He turns his head back to face hers again, to press his lips to hers.

 


	22. Mutual Domination (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the very last night of the little world Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler have carved out for themselves in death, and they have marked each other in ways beyond blood and sweat, beyond words and bondage and hot wax. But is it _enough_ for two brilliant souls to have marked each other the way they have? Or is there still some part of themselves for the other to mark?

Irene shudders as his mouth finds hers, as she kisses him back with all the simmering, boiling desire in her veins, that touch and denial and challenge and thought have boiled under her skin. She kisses him back, her mouth yielding beneath his as her fingers tug apart the knot on the curtain tie.  
  
A part of her is still aware of the lit wax candle in her left hand, and she is careful not to move that hand too quickly but that is something to be taken care of in a moment when she can pull her mouth from his to blow out the flame, and she cannot do that right now, not when she needs his mouth against hers, so that the low needy moan that escapes her remains caught between them.

 

The moment the knot is loose, his hand flies up to tangle in her hair, and he turns his body to face her more fully. He's still tied on one side, and she still has the candle with the opposite hand but he'll be _damned_ if he actually cares right now. He wants to consume her, in the way that the fire on that candle consumes oxygen. The way she kisses him back tells him she wants the same.  
  
The wax on his arms and back bends and cracks with his movements, and he'll be damned if he can care about that, either. The Woman. Their mouths. Their touch.

 

He tears her apart. He knows precisely what she likes, how to crack the cold removed facade of the Woman apart, and makes her want to consume him and be consumed at all once. It is terrifying and delicious and absolutely everything she refuses to be for clients and previous lovers. It is chaos and letting go and uninhibited indulgence.  
  
And she _adores_ it.  
  
His hand in her hair makes her gasp, makes her nip at his lower lip, a rough bite as her hand, no longer needed to untie his right arm, digs into his back, rakes a long furrow down his back as if trying to tear him apart the same way she feels like she is being, and she arches up, twisting to meet his mouth, to keep as much of their bodies pressed against each other as possible.   
  
And at this precise point Irene decides she does not give a single damn about burned fingers or scorched carpet and simply snuffs out the candle with her thumb, drowning the burning wick quickly in the pool of wax. The pain of the burn is quick, sharp, and she does not _care_ as she drops the now-snuffed candle, as her hand moves to cup his face, to pull him to her despite the precarious tangle that is their limbs kneeling on the carpet.  
  
Gravity, at this point, can absolutely go hang itself. Irene Adler has far better things to do.

 

She nips at his lower lip and draws her nails down his back, pulling up wax and scraping tender skin. He moans into her mouth and moves his body to pull her closer.  
  
Sherlock loves to dance. It's something he's good at, something he's experienced at. So, as such, he has an excellent sense of balance. Even so, kneeling as he is on this carpet, with the Woman in his arms, with one arm still tied up, and the way they're throwing themselves together---balance is gone.  
  
He tips to the side, and the tie gives way as he falls, his back to the carpet, pulling the Woman atop him.  
  
He can't help the bark of laughter that escapes his mouth. It's something relaxed, human.

 

The world spins for a moment and when it stills again, Irene finds herself half-atop Sherlock and it is a mere second's worth of deduction to figure out what has happened, to see the curtain tie still around his wrist, the hook having been ripped out of the wall. A laugh bubbles out of her in counterpoint to his, and Irene moves to straddle him properly, a gleam in her eyes even as the smile tugs at her mouth, softens her entire expression.  
  
"Something sturdier next time," she promises, leaning in to kiss him again, her hair falling like a curtain around them, her hand reaching for the curtain tie still around his wrist.

 

"Mmmm, yes. I'll make certain to."  
  
He agrees, because there _will be_ a next time, he reminds himself. There's no point in feeling as though there won't, or thinking that this is the end. It isn't. And they will.  
  
He leans up, pressing his lips to her collarbone, and then to the column between her breasts.  
  
He slides his free hand up her back, to the clasp holding her brassiere closed. He hesitates for only a second before working on it. He's hardly an expert, hardly able to open it with a flick of his wrist like the people in the pornography on John's computer, but he's learning.

 

She frowns when his lips do not meet hers but it is a momentary, fleeting thing when his lips trace along her collarbone instead, then trail between her breasts. She hums in approval as his fingers work the clasp free, and indulges in the feel of the curling locks between her fingers as she moves above him, her body pressing against his as she pulls away just far enough to nip at his earlobe.   
  
"Trousers," she suggests, shrugging the silken undergarment from her shoulders with a sigh before threading her fingers into his hair again.

 

"Yes," he murmurs against her skin. "Yes, I agree."  
  
He ignores his own trousers, of course, in the same way that he ignored the obvious kiss. He, instead, focuses on her lace undergarments, which need to come off just around immediately.  
  
He's being difficult.  
  
On purpose.  
  
Because.  
  
Her brassiere is gone, and he moves his mouth to her right breast, pressing his lips against her nipple, and then tracing it with his tongue. He remembers the sensitivity from before, and moves delicately, testing before he leaps into full on stimulation. He's being difficult, but hurting her has never been anything he's ever wanted.

 

The pregnancy-related sensitivity of her breasts is obvious now, and it is perhaps telling of how utterly ordinary they make each other that she had not thought of it, had refused to even _consider_ it before, chalking it up to growing skill on his part rather than the obvious evidence.  
  
Still, it is remarkably effective, the way he laves the nerve-laden peak with his tongue, and her breathing quickens despite her best efforts to control herself. It would, after all, not do for her to feed his ego quite so obviously. Still, self control is only so effective and he is utterly distracting, drawing a long, shuddering moan from her throat. It is only then, as she writhes above him, does she realize his focus is not on his own trousers, but on the knickers that still cling to her.  
  
"You're being difficult," she gasps, taking her weight back onto her knees, pulling away far enough to allow her to slide back, putting all-important inches between her body and his so that she can run a long, knowing finger along his erection. "Are you so eager to be made to beg again?"

 

He lets a low groan come out of his throat at her gentle touch along his erection.  
  
"I never begged before you," he says, moving his hands back to his own trousers, to carefully unbutton as instructed. "And I never will again. You know that."  
  
She's changed him in many ways. Strange, simple ways. He's not crueler or kinder than he was. Just...freer. She's free in ways he never will be, but she's opened his mind, given him new ways of thinking. New ways of manipulating that he won't forget.

 

There is a heaviness to his words, a weightiness of inescapable truth when they were used to dodges and lies and silences and deliberate touch. An even as Irene hums in approval as he undoes his trousers, increasing the speed and duration of her fingers against his erection in encouragement, she knows it is a sentiment that requires balance, and that in this last indulgence before they part, that perhaps she can offer up the same.  
  
"I've never had a lover make me want to beg before you," she replies, leaning in again to trail a line of slow, deliberate kisses against his shoulder and up his throat, her tongue tracing one of the lines of wax as she does. "I sincerely doubt I ever will again."

 

She doesn't bother with false promises, with the very notion that she won't have other lovers besides himself. Sherlock wouldn't want that. He doesn't want her to deny herself that. To him, she is his paramour. To her, he is---well, it doesn't matter what he is to her. But she will have other lovers, and he is all right with this.  
  
But she's admitted there's more to him, to _them_ than she experiences with others.  
  
That makes him feel oddly warm in his chest.  
  
His trousers open, he lets out a sigh at the feel of her lips on his throat and her motion against his erection. He moves his hands back to her body, back to her hips, to pull her closer to him again.

 

Lovers are useful, dalliances and ultimately inconsequential but enjoyable liaisons. In Irene's mind, they are not simply lovers. That he is the only person she's ever met who can keep up with her, whose mind worked in a way so similar to her own, who was even remotely a match for her in the games she played.  
  
He was her opponent. And her partner. But most of all he was simply Sherlock Holmes to Irene Adler.  
  
It is a dreadfully sentimental thought to have, and instead of dwelling on it she laughs low against his jaw, little more than a warm breath as he pulls her close. She revels in the embrace, in feeling his hands warm against her hips, his grip not yet bruising despite the delicious knowledge that she will drive him to it yet, and she grinds against him again, ringing her thumb and forefinger lightly around his boxer-clad erection, loosening her other hand's grip on his hair and instead snaking that hand to his wrist, where the curtain tie that had come loose from the wall still dangled.  
  
"I've had you on your knees," she purrs against his throat, her hips making slow small circles against his. "Where would you have me, given a chance?"

 

His hips rise up to meet the slow circles she makes against him. He's getting dangerously close to begging again, and that simply won't do. He's already begged once today, and that's damaging enough to his ego.  
  
She wants him to say something sexual, he imagines. Something sexy and provocative and appropriate to their position, where he has a rope against his wrist and their nearly-naked bodies are entwined. That's what he should say, and he should think about what he's saying. Or, if nothing else, admit that he needs to do research.  
  
His brain, of course, doesn't listen to this at all. His mind immediately supplants his most wild intellectual fantasy and he begins to speak it.  
  
"In Paris," he says. "The Louvre. Stealing the guarded paintings and replacing them with duplicates. Not for profit, but just to say we _could_."  
  
God, the hours of work that would have to go into that. The amount of planning, the amount of danger.

 

"One of the most well-guarded museums in the world," she purrs back, shifting so that she's facing him again even as her hips continue to move in small deliberate circles against him.   
  
Her eyes are bright, wide and darkly dilated, her skin flushed with arousal. Nothing sexual he could have said would have affected her as thoroughly as the fantasy he proposes. The sheer _challenge_ of it, the danger, the _difficulty_.  
  
Her grip on the curtain tie at his wrist tightens, and she tries to pull his hand away from her hip, to pin it over his head on the carpet. "Climate controlled rooms, thorough security. And the best art historians in the world studying the paintings every day. How fortunate that I know someone who deals in exquisite forgeries."

 

He lets out a gasp at the action, and his eyes go wide and unfocused at her words. Any other person, any other person in the world, would have taken his words as Not Good. He knows this, he knows it well. But, _God_ , the Woman, she understands.  
  
"Woman," he moans. " _Please---_ "  
  
Ah, but now she's made him beg twice.  
  
He is, once again, entirely at her mercy.

 

The way his entire body reacts to her words is like liquid lightning down her spine, a jolt of desire so intense her toes could curl in orgasm even without a touch. "Don't think for a moment I'm done with you yet, Mr. Holmes," she tells him, though her own voice is a match for his, low and needy and wanting.  
  
But this is an indulgence, their last one, and she would make it _last_. " _Off_ with the trousers," she informs him, her fingers no longer running along his erection, instead pressing one digit to his lips. "And you'll have me on the dining table over there while I consider the Louvre." She arches an eyebrow at him, her lips quirked into a sinful smirk. "We'll see whether you manage to distract me before I figure out how to replace the Wedding at Cana."  
  
She has no doubt he would manage it, she is so _painfully_ close, but they both did adore a challenge.

 

Oh, but the Wedding at Cana. Now, that would be a challenge. Anything within the Louvre would be a challenge, but something so large, something so well known and well seen---they could. They could figure out a way. And they could do it in such a manner that no one short of Mycroft would work it out.  
  
His trousers are still on. Somehow, he kept forgetting to completely remove them. Oh, and at some point he was being _difficult_ , wasn't he? At this exact moment, he has no idea why.  
  
He reaches his hands down to lower his trousers and boxers, still considering how quickly he can manage to remove the lace on her hips before they get to the table. And how, in the last few minutes, she's managed to turn what was almost but not quite a truce into her own victory.

 

She sighs in anticipation and momentary disappointment as he lets go of her hips to obey and she lets go of the rope around his wrist to facilitate his removal of his trousers. The carpet on which she is kneeling, on which they'd fallen, is plush beneath her feet and Irene throws her leg back over his semi-prone form to kneel properly over him, watching him, committing this moment to memory.  
  
As an after thought, she kicks off her heels as well, leaving her feet bare against the carpet, hardly the dominatrix with half her undergarments gone, her knickers slick with arousal against her body and her hair falling wild down her back.  
  
"We could arrange for it to be loaned out to a less secure museum," she says conversationally, as if she had all the time in the world, as if every nerve in her body wasn't screaming for release, for his hands and his lips to be everywhere. "Have it switched there. But that would hardly be a challenge."

 

"It could be a private viewing, a show for only exclusive members of an elite group," Sherlock says. "Facilitate the plans, prepare, and be the ones to close the area off."  
  
He moves to his knees in order to pull his trousers off, meanwhile moving his mouth up, towards her stomach, and then again to her mouth.  
  
He wants her so badly right now. Every part of her. Her mind, whirring with an intellect that matches his and a cruelty that is untouchable and amazing. All of her is desirable.

 

She all but melts against him, reaching down with one hand to help pull away his trousers, the other around his waist to pull him close. It is almost enough to make her forget her demand, almost. But his suggestion tugs at her, at the puzzle to solve, the game to play, and even as she pulls him close, she murmurs against his mouth, the words, the plans, caught between them.  
  
"A private showing after a restoration," she answers, all but moaning the words. "Any inconsistencies, any new paint, any differences in the forgery will be dismissed by the historians as part of the restoration."

 

"Restoration after an attempted robbery," Sherlock says. "Someone tried to steal it, attempted to damage it? Failed, but escaped cleanly. Restorers called in."  
  
He hooks his thumbs into the lace at her hips and slides it down, moving them both towards the table as he does so. The way she speaks against his mouth, the way she feels, smells, it's all---it's all---  
  
 _It's all coming to an end_ , his mind reminds him.  
  
"You know forgers, I know loudmouthed attempted thieves," he murmurs, pushing the previous thought as far back as he can.

 

A low, pleased laugh bubbles up from her throat in response, as her breath hitches in response to the way he pulls the knickers from her hips and she rises moving with him towards the table. Three steps and she can feel the edge of the heavy polished wood against her hip.  
  
She wants him, right now, in every sense of the word, mentally and physically, and yet there is a small part of her that is not drowning in sensation and in the challenge that wants to hold back that wants to _wait_ because this is the end and if she allows him to have her now it is another marker of the last of their holiday, even as they plan for another.  
  
"I'll provide the forgery, you'll provide the excuse," she says, stepping out of the lace knickers, and kicking them away lest she tangled herself. Her head falls back and her next words are moaned and wanting, "You're rather good."

 

"You're not so bad," he returns, smiling.  
  
He lifts her, carefully, up against the table. He wants her, right now. But part of him doesn't want her right now, because that means he'll leave. Because he can't stay and sleep next to her. There's no grand disguise for the morning, no shower and no gratuitous amount of aftercare. There is only this, and then there is the train he has to catch.  
  
And no amount of stalling will make the time move any less quickly. But at the same time, he has a moment of utter despair hit him. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to go back to just being alone. Alone protects him, alone is more focused and easier and---it's not this. And he likes this.  
  
He leans in and kisses her with a slow, deliberate tenderness, one that doesn't quite befit the rough, desperate touch of only minutes earlier. But one that he feels he wants to share with her.

 

They have exchanged small touches repeatedly during their holiday, exchanged numerous kisses. Callous casual touches and careless kisses in their various disguises, rough bruising grips and biting searing kisses in the moments of passion, desperate couplings and even more desperate kisses of exhaustion.  
  
But the kiss he presses to her mouth, the way he lifts her up to the table, are different, are supremely careful, are almost unfathomably tender in a way that Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective is not, and for a brief moment it takes her breath away.

 


	23. Simultaneous Submission (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does it mean to lose, for two individuals as proud and as used to victory as Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes?

But she returns the kiss in kind, with a reverence and care that Irene Adler should not be capable of, as she traces her fingers along his arm, letting the sensitive pads of her fingertips follow the fading mark of the gunshot wound in his shoulder, the remnants of the IV mark in his chest from Las Vegas, tracing along the scar from Montenegro, remembering all the little scars they have collected along the way.

 

His hand does the same, tracing down her leg to the place where she was so horribly injured, and then again up, to her abdomen, where she carries the bundle of cells within herself. The ultimate change to her life from this holiday they've been on.  
  
He doesn't love her. He tells himself this as he moves his body closer to her, positioning himself between her legs. He doesn't love her, because he doesn't love anyone. He has always thought of love as a poison, as the defect on the losing side. He has told her this much, he has all but spat it in her face.  
  
He doesn't love anyone, he tells himself, but with her he can see why someone would.

 

It should make her laugh, that even in these careful reverent touches they are so very much themselves. That she starts from his head, his shoulders, and work her way down, while he moves in the opposite direction, starting low and moving upwards. It should make her laugh, but all it does is makes her sigh, a small sound of something almost like regret  
  
She breaks the kiss and rests her forehead against his as she moves to accommodate the way he positions himself between her legs. Her eyes have closed, the better to remember how everything _feels_ in this moment, and perhaps because she does not want to see the tenderness in his face that she had tasted in his kiss, the care in his fingers. No, she wants to remember him as they are best. And perhaps she does not want to see his reaction when she begs.  
  
"Sherlock... _please_."

 

Her words are a plea, one he has begged himself. He moves forward, to slowly move himself into her, to have her one last time. Her eyes are closed, and he watches her openly, unguarded. The way her eyelashes splay against her cheek, the curve and line of her lips, the shape of her breasts.  
  
He memorizes her. In case it is the last time.  
  
She is warm and wet as she surrounds him, and he shudders as he pulls her towards him, the sensation of her overwhelming. He presses his forehead to hers, his nose brushing against her cheek.  
  
" _Irene_ ," he breathes. It feels like speaking the secret name of a goddess, something only to be done in rituals of great importance.

 

There is an intimacy in the names they use, in the distance they pretend to in epithets and titles. And there is a completely different intimacy now, in the way the names they rarely use for each other, that truly marks this as the end of their holiday. It is in the way she feels the weight of his name fall from her tongue, in the way he breathes hers like a prayer.  
  
She opens her eyes then to meet his, and she smiles, unguarded and utterly pleased as she wraps her legs around him to pull him closer, deeper, as she moves her hips in a slow steady rhythm.   
  
There is nothing that needs to be said, no teasing, no tweaking his nose in challenges, not now, when all that matters is connectivity and touch and the look on his face that she wants to memorize.

 

He watches her, lifting his hand to cup the side of her face as he moves with her rhythm. As they move in sync with each other, her friction and his. It's not the pleasure from the movement that nearly undoes him, though it is _good_. God, is it good. It's not even the build-up from their talk before, though that, too, is good. Beyond good, for how, to anyone else on the planet, it would have been Not Good.  
  
No, it's the unguarded way she smiles at him that nearly undoes him. The Woman does not just feel _happy_ like ordinary people, she doesn't just have some sort of girl-like joy in coupling or affection. No, she coils and uncoils with a _pleased_ nature, something that is exotic and ethereal.  
  
And, from the way that her walls are down now, something that is utterly _true_.  
  
His return smile is small, slightly crooked, and ever uncertain of itself. But also, true.

 

Had it only been moments before when they had been gasping and wanting, been focused on nothing but feverish heat? Now, she moves with him, slow and deliberate, savouring each motion, her eyes fixed on his, fixed on the way the small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth mirroring her own expression.  
  
She relaxes into the touch of his hand against her face, but her eyes do not flutter closed like they had before during the gesture. There is, after all, so little _time_ to waste it in seconds of not memorizing the way his expression changes, the way the small smile plays across his mouth. She reaches up, and runs a single solitary finger against his cheek and down his jaw, tracing the line of it that she has already memorized, feeling warm skin and the beginning edges of stubble against her finger.  
  
Her hand lingers against his jaw, and despite her wish to make this last, make these last few minutes, last few hours of their holiday last before they pick up the pieces of their armour again, she can feel the long delayed orgasm starting to build, a rising crest of tension in the pit of her stomach and she tries to slow down, tries to deny herself and make it _last_ , but she does not turn away from him, does not look away, wanting to see every moment even as she loses herself in sensation.

 

He's going to make this last. For him, it's surprisingly easier than he thought it would be. Yes, there is pleasure. God, but is there pleasure. But there's also pain. A steady stream of something like anxiety running through him, because he knows this is the end of the holiday. They've promised a new one will come, eventually  
  
Promises can be so easily broken.  
  
Where sentiment usually pushed him further to the edge, at this moment it keeps him in check.  
  
He lowers his free hand between them, to rub his thumb against her clitoris, to increase her pleasure. She focused on him for so long with the wax, it's his turn.

 

She tries to make it last, tries to simply _linger_ in the moment of desire so strong it is a physical ache, the moment that she leaves so many clients, in that moment of painful anticipatory bliss, that moment before the end of their holiday.   
  
She tries but the additional friction of his thumb rubbing against her clitoris thwarts Irene's plans, and she feels the orgasm build, feels the wave of pleasure wash over her slowly, inexorably. She does not look away from him as it does, does not pull her fingertip from tracing along his jaw even as her other hand grips his side, as her fingernails dig into his skin to anchor herself in the solid warmth.  
  
Her eyes never leave his as the orgasm washes over her, her mouth opening in a soft O as her body betrays her mind and a shuddering moaning cry rips from her throat.  
  
She should hate him, for beating her. Should hate her body and him for the betrayal.  
  
She should, but she is not certain she can.

 

She tightens around him, and he watches her face as the orgasm washes over her, as she cries out. He wonders if she feels frustrated, _beaten_ , as it were, for being the first to succumb. He doesn't feel as though he's beaten her. Not tonight, not with this.  
  
No, she has well and truly beaten him. Him, the man who would not feel, the man who would not be taken, would not feel would not _belong_ to anyone. Him, the man with no ties, no attachments.  
  
Now, look at him. Look at what she's done to him.  
  
Look at how he holds her, the tender touch of his hand to her face. The way he watches her orgasm, the way he moves with her. The way he _aches_ at the thought of this all being over. It's so unbelievably _stupid_ and _normal._ He'd have been downright disgusted with himself six months earlier. Hell, he's more than a bit disgusted with himself, even now.  
  
And she's done that. She's done that by being absolutely irresistible. By making the idea of being anywhere and feeling anything _but_ this impossible.  
  
He leans in to press his mouth to hers.

 

He has beaten her.  
  
She hates to think of it, to acknowledge or believe it, but in this moment it is impossible to ignore. With her orgasm continuing to wash over her in slow, unrelenting waves, it is impossible for Irene to ignore the fact that Sherlock Holmes has beaten her.   
  
Once in his brother's home, with a single four-letter key to her camera phone, her entire life. Once that should have been enough, that should have been warning and caution and an object lesson that this should not happen again. That she should never let anything rule her head.  
  
And now, he has beaten her again. Not simply in bringing her to orgasm before him, not simply in bodily submission, but in the simple fact that they are _here_ in Moscow together, that she had not simply walked away in Kotor, had not walked away in Las Vegas or London or San Salvador or Vienna or St. Petersburg. He has beaten her logic, her knowledge of the facts and the knowledge that the safe thing to have done would have been to walk away in Kotor, to never have stopped and traded bills with him in Montenegro.  
  
He has beaten her by being the puzzle, by being the game, the one person against whom she can truly play the game, the one person who _knew_ what it was like to be extraordinary, to understand what it meant to see so much of the world among people who saw so little.  
  
He has beaten her, twice, and she had allowed it willingly, had been drawn to the challenge. Had allowed herself to be beaten and changed so thoroughly and so desperately curious as to what they could be that she now carried a bundle of cells within her to see what would happen.  
  
She should hate him for it. Should hate herself for allowing it, but it is desperately difficult to remind herself of that fact right now, as their slow steady rhythm refuses to allow her orgasm to ebb, as she tastes the ghost of cigarettes on his tongue, and feels her own cry against his mouth as she tries to draw him closer, deeper into herself as if by doing so she is not leaving some sentimental idiocy behind.

 

He feels her cry against his mouth as she draws him closer, as his own rhythm speeds up. The pain can only keep so much in check, like the stick of a needle versus the high of the heroin. He whimpers faintly into her mouth as well, as his own pleasure starts to build. No, no, he won't give in, can't give in, not yet. While they're like this, time is irrelevant, time doesn't exist. The moment their coupling ends, he'll have to take note of the time. He'll have to _care_ about when he has to leave.  
  
He'll have to wash her off of his skin and pretend he never held her close.  
  
He gasps as he feels his orgasm build up, rising up his spine, overtaking the pain and anxiety. He can focus on her, on this, instead of on what he'll be leaving behind.

 

She feels his rhythm quickens, as he speeds up and she knows he is close to orgasm, to falling over the edge and to the end of this, to the end of their holiday from death, from the holiday that allows them to be Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler without being the Consulting Detective and the Woman.   
  
She knows he is close and a part of her wants to slow her own hips' movements, to draw this out so that they can linger in this utterly idiotically sentimental moment that they will both pretend never existed. But he whimpers against her mouth and it threatens to undo her all over again, threatens to send her spilling headlong into another shuddering orgasm as she deepens the kiss, as she tries to pull him into herself and have this moment without the knowledge that it will soon end.  
  
There will be other holidays. They will have other holidays. She refuses to believe otherwise.  
  
Still, there is an edge of desperation to her kiss, an edge of desperation to the way she moves with him, the way she grips him and the way she is holding on by the metaphorical fingernails as another orgasm threatens to undo her completely before she must become Irene Adler again.

 

He feels that desperation mirrored from her in their kiss. The need to hold on. They are so alike, he and her. So alike, and so viciously different.  
  
His compliment. His foil. His lover. His antagonist. She means so much to him, despite how often he has tried to tell himself that she meant nothing to him. She is the Woman. The one Woman who matters. The only Woman who matters to him. Jim read off the people in his life who mattered and he missed the most important. He missed her.  
  
Orgasm overtakes him, and he cries out against her, the hand holding her face moving to tangle in her hair, to hold her closer.  
  
His mind seems to go white with pleasure, emotion, intensity. There is nothing to think about as orgasm hits but this, but her, but _now_.

 

He cries out against her, his body shuddering against hers with the force of his orgasm and she feels her own wash over her, the second in so many minutes, but this time it is more intense, as if her mind and body acknowledge that this is the end and every nerve every cell in her body reacts in response.  
  
He pulls her close, his hand tangling in her hair, and she feels her own hand against his jaw move to the back of his neck, to tangle in the dark curls and hold him close as her own shaking shuddering cry washes over her, as she swallows his cry against her mouth and returns it with her own.  
  
Her nails dig deep into his side, her fingers curl tightly into his hair, her legs wrap tight around his waist and every nerve in her body seems flooded with white hot fire as the orgasm races through her, as she gasps in pleasure and pain, in emotion and humiliation, in everything they have ever done to each other.   
  
Her heart races and all she can see is _this_ and all of her senses are filled with him, with _them_ , and it is at once too much and not enough as she tries to hold on, as white hot pleasure begins to ebb and she can hear her own cry fade against his mouth.  
  
Her knees shake.

 

He kisses her fully, deeply, slowing as the force of his orgasm clears in his head, allowing his senses to return. She is everywhere. She is the sting at his hip, the burn on his shoulders, the coiling warmth in his stomach. She is everywhere, and he has to leave it.  
  
He moves his other arm to wrap around her waist, to pull her as close as possible. One last indulgence, she said. This is part of it. Time officially becomes of the essence, and he gives himself sixty seconds to hold her, to be completely of this moment, before he even thinks of disentangling, of moving away, of moving forward.  
  
Sixty seconds of the Woman.

 

Her own orgasm fades, though the intensity of it leaves her shaken. As the familiar cocktail of pain and pleasure, of endorphins and other chemicals, begins to settle in her blood, Irene feels herself breathing steadier, deeper, and while her senses are still full of him, full of the smell of him and the taste of him and the feel of his skin against hers, her mind works, memorizes the feel of the wood against her skin, the feel of his body against hers.  
  
She should move, she knows, should move and untangle herself from him and move to the shower and put herself to rights again and be Irene Adler again. But he does not move, his arms instead wrap around her to draw her closer and Irene finds her head resting against his shoulder, against his chest where she can hear the low racing beat of his heart.  
  
It is a strange sort of intimacy. She thinks she'd rather hear his mind work than his heart. But she holds on to it, to this moment of seemingly utter normalcy, of lovers holding each other, and not of goodbyes. He holds her and she rests against him, her breath warm against his chest as she lets her arms fall, to rest loose and wrapped around his waist.  
  
She counts in silent breaths and heartbeats, until it is over.

 


	24. Sixty Seconds of Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Consulting Detective and the Woman, aftercare is not a formality, nor is it something to be swiftly indulged. For them, aftercare is something necessary, the time to put themselves to rights, to erase every mark of themselves from each other, to become who the world believes them to be again: living, emotionless machines of unparalleled intellect.

Sherlock takes in a breath of her hair, of the sweat and the hair products and the candle wax and sex that make up her and this room and everything they experience together. It's not as though holding onto that memory will do him any good, he thinks. But, really, if he's going to have this in his mind palace, and there's no way that he's going to delete her from his mind palace properly, then he might as well have her and her memory in there correctly. Accurately. Perfect in every detail, including scent.  
  
 _Thirty-seven seconds. Thirty-eight._  
  
He moves his hand from her hair down her body, tracing the line of her back down to her hip, just feeling the texture of her skin.  
  
This, he thinks, is what normal people must feel like. Ordinary lovers. Ones who don't memorize look and touch, who feel the need to reaffirm texture of skin and smell each time they make love (or whatever it is they call it whenever they have each other). Sherlock reminds himself that he and the Woman are different. They are doing this, he is doing this, for the simple fact that he won't have another chance for a long time yet.  
  
A minute goes by quickly, and he doesn't allow himself any more time. Adding any additional seconds might mean adding additional minutes, then hours, then days.  
  
He carefully moves his arms, moves to disentangle, to move away. He doesn't speak, yet. Doesn't trust himself to.

 

_Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine._  
  
She smiles when she feels him begin to move, as if he has fulfilled some requisite, some amount of time necessary for this. Sixty seconds. She is not surprised that he pulls away then. In some ways she trusts him in that, that he will not linger longer than necessary, will not tempt _her_ by lingering more than sixty seconds, lest it turns into hours, into days.  
  
Days that turn into weeks and months and she does not have months to linger.  
  
He moves to disengage, and she moves in response without a word, unwrapping her legs from around his waist slowly, untangling her arms from around him. She is reminded of an old childhood memory, of careening into the rosebushes as a child, and the need to slowly untangle herself from each long vine-like stem of the bush, to pull each thorn from her clothes, from her skin.   
  
They have tangled themselves too much in each other. She has to untangle herself from him slowly, lest she rips herself apart.  
  
She doesn't speak, doesn't want to break the silence, not yet, and instead when she has untangled her limbs she looks up at him, her hair wild and tumbling down her back, her lips swollen and bruised. Her eyes linger on his chest, on the trails of hardened wax and the rake of her fingernails vivid red against his skin, and she reaches for his wrist as she rests her feet back on the ground.  
  
"Come with me."

 

The Woman breaks the silence first, and it's like a blast of ice across his skin, or a shot of espresso to the blood. He looks up at her and as her fingers circle his wrist, he knows he'll follow as she instructs.  
  
Her eyes are on the wax on his body, and he turns his head, looking towards the bathroom. Shower. He needs to shower. He needs to scrub off every possible sign that he's been here, that he's been _happy_ in weeks. He needs to hide her from where he's going. He needs to hide her from Mycroft. Because Mycroft will start looking the moment he's found.  
  
And he will be found.  
  
He looks back to her, and tilts his head in a simple nod.

 

She is not certain what she expects when she speaks, but he nods and she knows he will follow in this strange twilight they find themselves lingering in. She leads him to the washroom and turns on the tap, letting water run fast and hot as she considers the varieties of soaps and lotions and shampoos available.   
  
She picks up a pair of bottles of shampoo, one an expensive scent, one unscented, and the matching bars of soap. "It'll take us both to ensure I haven't left any telltale marks," she tells him, nodding towards the shower.

 

"Make them both unscented," he says. "I don't want my hands to hold any scent."  
  
Admission that he wants to touch her. Admission that he wants to touch her and that he doesn't plan on being coy about it, either.  
  
He's surprised by how his voice sounds. It's so calm. That emotionless void he remembers from London, from _before_. None of the way he feels inside seems to come out, none of that _anguish_ that's brewing in his stomach shows.  
  
It's good. He can almost convince himself that he's ready to leave.

 

He sounds like the Consulting Detective again, the cold calculating machine. Irene muses that anyone but her would be offended by the coldness in his voice so soon after coitus, but she hears his reasoning in his words, hears the admission, the need to touch wrapped up in a cold directive.

There is a familiar rhythm to that, to the way they work in desire couched in emotionless facades. It is far more comforting than their moments of desperate connectivity, far better than their fragile genuine sentiment.

She does not argue, and that too is an admission in cold facades. She does not argue, simply nods and sets the scented soap back on the counter. Accepting his unspoken rationale and returning with her own admission that the touch would be welcome.

A glance in the mirror shows her their reflections, and despite the viciousness of the marks on his skin, they look painfully ordinary without their armour. Bare both metaphorically and physically.

Irene turns away from the mirror quickly and gestures him into the shower stall, where thick heavy steam is starting to curl. "The marks will fade in a few days," she says. "Try to avoid idiots with a penchant for flogging until then."

 

He won't tell her how pleased he is that she takes two unscented soaps. But he is, and his lips curl just slightly to express this.  
  
"I'll do my best," he says, following where she gestures. She gestures, he follows. A good metaphor for the whole of their relationship. He has always followed her lead. And yet, he has also led in many ways. They compliment each other. They---  
  
He wants to tell her that he does not want them to end. He won't. But he wants to.  
  
He waits for her under the hot spray.

 

He steps into the shower stall, and for a brief moment Irene is alone. She sheds her nylons, the garter that had still managed to hold on, and gives herself one more look in the mirror. How much has the woman reflected in the glass changed in the last few months? She had been scarless, once. The scars of childhood long faded to pristine armour, then had come Karachi, and the long scar of a knife wound at her side. Then Las Vegas and its stitches on her arm, the bruised rib in Hong Kong, the bullet wound on her thigh in San Salvador... and on and on.  
  
And how many more will there be in the next nine months, skin stretched to accommodate a growing bundle of cells within, forced to bounce back after childbirth...  
  
She shakes her head and steps into the shower, following him under the spray. She refuses to become simply a collection of scars and memories. Scars healed, faded, and she would become Irene Adler again. She refuses to be otherwise, as much as a part of her wants to linger, wants to _stay_ in this holiday, where they collected scars and danced through the world as ghosts of themselves.  
  
She steps into the shower behind him and slowly begin to run her fingers along his back, carefully, methodically working away the remaining wax, now softened by steam.

 

He turns his head, glancing back at her. The Woman, the one Woman who matters. She means so much to him. This means so much to him. He'll memorialize every moment of this, he thinks. Everything that has happened will solidify and crystallize itself within his mind palace more clearly and more strongly than the scars on his body, than the pink and healing scar on his shoulder ever would. He'll wear them in his mind more clearly.  
  
And he _wants_ them to, that's the most frustrating thing of all.  
  
He has no idea how to tell her this. He has no idea if he wants to.  
  
He focuses on the feel of her hands, of the way the wax feels as her hands peel it away, like removing the layers of the holiday from him, one piece at a time. Shedding his sentiment.  
  
"I'm going to Serbia," he says. "Where Mycroft will find me. He'll rescue me from a sect there, return me to London."

 

She wants to tell him that the Croatians are particularly vicious in Serbia, wants to tell him to be cautious, wants to offer him the names of allies in Serbia who could hide him for longer. But she doesn't, because their holiday will be over when he goes to Serbia, because he needs to return to Baker Street and she needs to disappear, to be well and truly ensconced in the center of her new web as soon as possible.  
  
Instead, she focuses on working the wax off his back, on running her fingertips along his skin, shedding the last bits of their holiday, of their vulnerability and their sentiment. "I won't tell you where I'm going. It's better for both of us," she cautions him, her fingers running over his shoulder, sweeping away the last scraps of wax.   
  
She tells herself it is the wise choice, that he cannot give her away if he did not know where she was. But she would trust him not to give her away even if he knew. But it would be a temptation. A worse one than Baker Street.  
  
A pause, and Irene reaches for the unscented soap, to work it into a lather in a wet washcloth. "Don't make it too easy for your brother, in Serbia."

 

He waits, letting her work with the soap. Lets her remove the wax, the sweat, the sex.  
  
He doesn't move.  
  
"Of course I won't," he says. "He wouldn't deserve it."  
  
He wants to pull the information from her, to try to work out where she's going, but he knows it will be in vain. The Woman keeps everything close, her mystery is part of her appeal, part of who she is, part of what he adores about her.  
  
"It takes nine months," he says. "Nine months to give birth."

 

She begins at his neck, at the base of his hairline, working downward as she always does, drawing the washcloth against his skin, methodically working away the dust of Moscow, the dirt of the construction site where they'd left Mycroft, the bite of Utkin's paddle, the leather of the town car, the last traces of beeswax, of sweat and sex and lingering touches. She is steady, careful to cover every inch of skin, to wipe all traces of them away from each other, but her rhythmic motions pause at his mention of birth.  
  
Three heartbeats after his remark, she continues. "I certainly hope the process of labour doesn't take nine months," she remarks with a brittle quiet laugh. "But yes, barring potential complications."

 

A twitch of laughter appears at her comment on the length of labor.  
  
"I imagine I won't hear from you," he says. It isn't insulting, It's just a comment. "Will Sibyl Vane know about me?"  
  
He fully turns to face her, then. To attempt to see her, just to see what her face might betray, what he might be able to read from the minute changes from her expressions.

 

She does not stop him from turning, instead running her fingertips along his chest, flaking off more of the softened wax. She considers the question, then meets his eye plainly.   
  
"Should she?" she asks in return. "Hardly any reason for her to know."  
  
Unless something should happen to her, and the Inconvenience would require someone else who understood her, understood what it meant to be extraordinary.

 

He looks down to his shoulder where she picks off the wax. One step closer to leaving. One step closer to London. It's what he wanted. It's what he _wants_ , he reminds himself. They need the time apart.  
  
"And you'll tell him?" he asks her. "The child."  
  
Because it will be a child. It's a bundle of cells now. But it will be a child.

 

She freezes again, at the word _child_. Yes, at some point the Inconvenience would become a child. Would be more than a bundle of cells, an abstract experiment incubating within her body, would have to be birthed and fed and nurtured, would be a real _person_ , some mixture of their genetic material, of their natures.  
  
"She'll always know," Irene answers, and there is something that feels uncomfortably like a promise in those words. "She'll know she isn't the only extraordinary person in the world."

 

He doesn't know how he feels about that. He thinks that he wants the child to know. He thinks he wants to see what will become of him.  
  
He also thinks he likes the little argument between them about the gender of their child.  
  
"Besides yourself."

 

Her lip quirks upward at that, and it is another moment of softness, another moment of something fond and genuine that she should not be indulging in. Irene lets her hand rest against his shoulder, her fingertips rest against the scar from Moran's bullet as the hot water courses over him, rivulets of it running over her fingers.   
  
"Besides the obvious example," she agrees.  
  
She takes a breath, fills her lungs with the warm moist air, the unscented soap leaving her sense of smells strangely bereft of stimulus besides the two of them, of the fading smell of sex and sweat sluicing down the drain. "You miss London," she reminds him, letting the smile fade from her lips, putting herself back together as she continues drawing the washcloth along his skin. "It's obvious, if you know where to look."

 

There had better be. Sherlock thinks of that week in between Nassau and Montreal, the week where he believed she was gone. That was a week he would rather never repeat again. He finds that as he has come to know her, the thought of the world being without her has gone from upsetting, to traumatic, to unthinkable. He can live without her, of course. But she must exist, somewhere. The world needs the Woman. It isn't _right_ without her out there.  
  
There will be three of them, he tells himself. She is capable on her own.  
  
He reaches up, letting his fingers rest where hers touch the scar on his shoulder.  
  
"Are you afraid?" he asks. He's not certain she will answer.

 

His fingers brush hers and Irene does not pull away. Is she afraid. The answer should be obvious, that she is terrified of the decision she has set herself, set _them_ on, terrified of what it means for herself, for this fragile holiday of theirs, for there to be a _child_ involved.  
  
She is not afraid of taking the reins of the remnants of Jim Moriarty's web. It should be laughable that she'd be afraid of the Inconvenience That Would Be A Child. But she is.  
  
She looks down at their fingers against the pink scar tissue at his shoulder, brighter red now from the hot water.  
  
"If I said no, you'd know I was lying."

 

He wants to tell her that she shouldn't misplace her sentiment, but part of him doesn't want her to change her mind. Doesn't want her to suddenly want them to become two, instead of three. The possibilities are too interesting.  
  
"It would be Not Good if I told you that it would be terrible if you weren't?" he asks. "If you were some ordinary person looking forward to---I don't know. Changing nappies."  
  
He makes a face. If she ever drops the creature off at 221b, that is something that Sherlock will make certain Mrs. Hudson does. Or John.  
  
"Fear is a better emotion." Not one he thinks is necessary for her. The Woman is incapable of failing at this. She has proven herself incapable of failure. Perhaps that puts her on too high a pedestal. He doesn't care.

 

The look of disgust on her face at the very idea of changing nappies mirrors the look on his, and for a moment Irene is relieved that they are of an opinion on some things regarding the Inconvenience, even if their opinions on something as simple as its possible gender did not.  
  
"Nappies," she sneers, running a thumb over the scar at his shoulder before remembering herself again, before remembering to begin with the washcloth again, to sluice the remnants of her, of _them_ from his body.   
  
"That's what Sibyl will be for. She'll be ecstatic about it. She's like your John Watson. Ordinary. She'll insist on taking care of all the boring necessities, otherwise she'd expect I'd leave the Inconvenience with a client. Or on a park bench."   
  
She says nothing about fear. She'd rather not feel any emotion at all, fear or otherwise. But fear is there. A small knot growing beside the bundle of cells.

 

"I won't tell John," Sherlock says. "He still believes you're dead. But Mrs. Hudson never knew you were alive. I won't torment Molly by having her help."  
  
And that would be cruel, he thinks. Having her help take care of his child with another Woman. Molly already doesn't understand him or their relationship, that might blur lines. He's _trying_.  
  
"But I will need time, to clear my schedule, should you want to drop him off," he says. Not that he expects her to. And not that he'd do anything short of dropping everything should she, he imagines. How annoying, knowing that a case would be less than the bundle of cells that hasn't yet but will one day become a child.

 

How ordinary they sound. Talking about clearing schedules and dropping off a child. Not that she would, of course, ever give him any warning that the Inconvenience would visit. It would be too easy to let him be _ready_ for her.  
  
"She'll visit whenever she feels like it, but I won't have her be part of our holidays," she warns him, running the washcloth along his ribs, along the scar from Montenegro. Had it only been months ago, when she'd bandaged that knife wound in a hotel room in Kotor? "Seven days to catch each other in a city."  
  
No, their holidays were _theirs_. Their indulgence. And child or no, she refuses to give up on that.

 

"I don't think sexual activities are appropriate around children, even ones that are exceptional," Sherlock says. "And that is, of course, part of the indulgence."  
  
He allows his other hand to move down, to pick up the soap. He needs to clean her, too. They don't have a lot of time, and he's dawdling. He needs to move forward. Needs to focus.  
  
"You'll miss me," he says.

 


	25. What Is And What Could Have Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes' plans will take him to Siberia, to Mycroft's waiting arms, and Irene Adler's plans will take her to Napoleon's throne and the center of the spider's web. But before they can take their rightful places in the world, they will have to be put back to rights, to wash away every trace of sentiment, every scent of weakness that they have accumulated.

Irene laughs quietly at that. She will not argue what is and isn't _appropriate_ around children, even if his assertion makes her want to because she argues with him and it is what they _do_. She does not argue, because his assertion gives them what she wants and it is enough to know that he agrees with it.  
  
She reaches around him, to run her soapy hand along his spine. To ensure there was no lingering wax there, nothing more, or so she tells herself. Certainly not to feel the now-familiar curve of his spine against her hand.   
  
"Be careful what you deduce, Mr. Holmes," she warns him. "Unless you want me to make the same sort of claim about you."  
  
Still, she does not say that she won't.

 

He runs his hand across her shoulder, feeling her skin through the soap-slicked wetness.  
  
How many showers have they shared, now?  
  
Is this it? Will they no longer have this intimacy? Will they give up the closeness of cleaning each other and having each other against tile walls?  
  
Will he learn to miss her and forget the way he feels right now? The anticipation of missing her? Will missing her become something he simply accepts, the way he has learned to accept not being part of society, not being accepted or understood? Now that he is stepping back into that world, a world not made up of the Woman, he has to accept it again.  
  
"I will miss you," he says. He is surprised that he has found the words. He looks almost embarrassed about what's come from his mouth, that he's expressed what he's been holding in for so long.  
  
He takes a step back.  
  
"Wet your hair," he instructs.

 

Damn him.  
  
He breaks her in these moments, in simple words, he manages to fracture the facade she wants to wear, the dominatrix's armour that protects her. She wonders if he realizes it, if he realizes what he does with four words he is embarrassed to have uttered, with three words she had not wanted to utter.   
  
Instead of stepping into the spray to wet her hair as he instructs, she steps close to him and rises on her toes to kiss him once, slow and deliberate. There is nothing of the rush of sexuality in it, simply her lips against his, slow and tender despite the fact that she is the Woman; she prefers pain and the bite of whips to tenderness.   
  
"I won't have to miss you," she tells him, her mouth still against his. "John Watson's blog won't allow it. But I will miss this."   
  
No she won't have to miss him, Sherlock Holmes will be in London and be among the living again, the name of the consulting detective and his cases splashed wide across the internet. But she will miss _this_ , will miss these moments of connectivity, will miss the feel of him warm and solid and slick with soap and water against her, will miss the moments where his hands run through her hair either in care or passion.  
  
And perhaps that is more dangerous than missing him. That she will miss them as they are.  
  
She pulls away slowly, and steps under the spray, closing her eyes and letting the water run over her face and through her hair.

 

She presses her mouth to his, and he wants to have her again. He wants to push her up against the wall and have her, even if his own body is uncooperative post-orgasm. But he won't, he won't allow himself back into that cocoon of sentiment. He kisses her back, because not kissing her is unthinkable, but he won't go further.  
  
He watches her wet her hair, and picks up the shampoo.  
  
They'll clean each other and miss each other and be afraid of the child growing within her together. Together---but not actually together. The opportunity to remain together left them, and now they are spending their lives apart, with only weeks together throughout.  
  
This is how it is going to be.  
  
He wonders if he asked right now, if they could change it. If he'd want to. If she would.

 

She knows what he likes too well to change the course they've set themselves on. She knows herself too well to _want_ to. But she will miss this, will miss him even as she reads about the consulting detective's cases from a world away, will write texts she will never send as she builds an empire from the ruins of madness, will wonder if an innocuous seeming murder in one place will catch his attention like the whiff of perfume and make him wonder if it is one of hers.  
  
Irene lingers under the spray, and tells herself the feel of hot water against her closed eyes and running through her hair is good, that they will put each other back together and walk away and meet again in tempestuous weeks of intensity and sexuality.   
  
She reminds herself that she has shed tears once in front of Sherlock Holmes and she will not do it again.  
  
She steps out of the spray, her hair soaked through, and flicks droplets of water from her eyelashes before she meets his eye.

 

Sherlock Holmes doesn't really cry. He tells himself that all tears he sheds are fake, that he doesn't possess the ability to cry. The thought of crying never occurs to him. He feels like he would understand why someone would want to, though.  
  
He pours some shampoo into his hand, and as she steps out of the spray, moves to massage it into her hair.  
  
"You'll need to teach him your ways of keeping all of your secrets from easy deduction," he says. "Otherwise I'll read him. Read where you've been."  
  
He hops conversation tracks, hops away from the painful topics.

 

She smiles at that, smiles and turns, tilts her head back to allow him better access as he begins to work the shampoo through her hair, his fingers working the traces of the airplane and their liaison in first class from her hair, washing away the traces of the damp warehouse and of blood, of sex and sweat and candle wax. Leaving her as pristine and unreadable as she leaves him, leaving the only traces of themselves on each other in scars and sentiment.  
  
"Or I'll let her learn her own ways of keeping secrets from you," she retorts. "Sherlock Holmes should always have a little more mystery in his life."

 

"I wouldn't want him to be any other way," Sherlock says. Her hair is long, black coils around his fingers and down his wrists, and he thinks of the trust it takes to allow someone to wash your hair. To allow them to take control of the follicles attached to so many nerve endings, attached to the most delicate organ in your body and do with it what they will. And the Woman turns, allowing him greater access.  
  
"You are still a mystery, Woman," he says. "No sentiment, there. Simply fact."

 

She trusts him. She trusts him to be stubborn, to be utterly convinced of his own correctness, to be Sherlock Holmes down to his very bones no matter what disguises they wear. And she trusts that he will not hurt her. He will make life difficult for her, if her criminal activities near London, or anywhere else he is, she trusts to his moral compass in John Watson for that, and his pride. But in these moments of vulnerability she knows he will not hurt her, will not wish her lasting ill out of petty spite.  
  
She shouldn't trust him, but they have earned that small measure of trust from each other in the last few months. In the tiny bundle of cells growing within her body. Irene feels her hand rest unconsciously against her abdomen, still flat despite the incubating Inconvenience, and curls her fingers at the idiotically sentimental gesture.   
  
"You've read me well enough the last few months," she answers. "And I doubt you'll forget what caused my scars. If I'm still a mystery, it's partly because you want me to be."  
  
Partly, because she can and will still hide things from him. But it is as much a warning to herself as a compliment to him, that he does know her better now than he had before.

 

That almost feels like a challenge, like she wants him to prove that he doesn't want her to be a mystery. But he does. He does want that.  
  
And she does it so well. His forever mystery.  
  
"You know what I like."  
  
He massages the shampoo into her hair, paying careful attention to the scalp, running his fingers along it, up and down, and then along the back of her neck in a careful massage.

 

She makes a small sound of agreement, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and leans into his touch, into the way his fingers work against her scalp, slowly massaging along the back of her neck. It makes her want to linger, to _stay_ when they need to leave, when they need to put themselves back together.  
  
"You don't love me," she reminds him quietly. "And I won't love you."

 

"No," he murmurs. Though if he's agreeing with her or disagreeing, it's difficult for even him to tell.  
  
He hurts. His chest aches, and his stomach hurts, and he remembers standing on top of the building, and how his tears were fake but the emotion in his voice wasn't, because he knew it would be years between that moment and when he would see John Watson again and it hurt.  
  
He could freeze John Watson in his mind, in many ways, but he can never freeze the Woman. She will continue to live outside of his world, will age and grow and cultivate her empire, cultivate the cells in her body until they become a child, and she will---she will--and they will--  
  
He takes in a breath, and it is not a sob, but there is emotion there, in the harshness of how he inhales. He can't mask it, he can't hide it, he can only hope the sound of the spray of the water drowns it out.

 

He is too close for the sound of running water to drown out the sound of the raw breath he takes, too close for either of them to truly hide, and Irene wonders if this was a mistake, this momentary indulgence of intimacy disguised as a need to rid themselves thoroughly of sentiment.   
  
She steps away from him, breaking the contact of his hands against her scalp, tangled in her hair, and ducks under the spray of the shower again, letting water course over her, letting it drown out the sound of the raw breath he takes and the harsh ground glass emotion in the sound, that threatens to crack the facade she is so desperate to build up again lest she is caught up in his orbit again, caught permanently by sentiment and everything else between them.  
  
She holds on to his 'no,' tells herself that he is agreeing with her even as she is not certain it is true, even as she holds onto the familiar words that are not as comfortably true as they had been before.  
  
She steps away from him and lets the water run over her face and through her hair and leaves him the illusion of sound being drowned out by running water.

 

He pours a bit of the shampoo back into his hand as she goes under the spray, and works it into his own hair. He has the remainder of the hair gel from before, as well as sweat, sex, and some blood to work out. Once that's gone, and the rest of the wax, then he should step from the water. Step from the shower, pick up his clothes, and go.  
  
Their clothing should be outside, as well as dinner. His map---soon to be _her_ map. All the final pieces, all in one place.  
  
No more trips, no more tickets, no more spinning queues of luggage to play over.  
  
It's all waiting out there.

 

She lingers under the spray, works all the shampoo out of her hair, takes the still soapy washcloth and scrubs the dried blood from her arms, sex and sweat and fluids from her thighs. She needs to be Irene Adler again, needs to be the Woman again in all her untouchability.   
  
She needs to be the Woman when she takes the reins of Jim Moriarty's web with Sibyl Vane and Sebastian Moran at her side. She needs to be _herself_ and not this creature whose composure threatens to be shattered by words from one man.   
  
To be Irene Adler again, without their games of reading marks that pass by, without the thrill of pick-pocketing the concierge and the thrill of sexual liaisons in coat closets and airplane lavatories and the thrill of being _understood_.  
  
To be Irene Adler and in power and in control utterly again, once she stepped out of the shower, out of the hotel room, out into the streets of Moscow and after.  
  
She steps out of the spray, shaking water (only water, she reminds herself) from her eyelashes for the second time in so many minutes and reaches for the shower stall door.

 

He almost reaches for her arm.   
  
Almost reaches for her arm, reaches for that pulse, that rapid pulse of life beating beneath the thin skin of her wrist. Skin no greater than 2 mm thick, protecting fatty tissue, blood vessels that go straight to her heart. A heart that beats at an average of 84 beats per minute and was contained within a cameraphone she entrusted to his name and he broke that trust and it all came back to his fingertips on her pulse and her pulse on his wrist and he should---he _should_ reach for it.  
  
He should reach for it, and stop her from leaving. Stop her from leaving and pull her to him and indulge in sentiment. Press his mouth to hers. Cocoon himself in the lie that this could last forever and admit the truth that he wants it to.  
  
He should tell her he loves her. The words are there. They're there, sitting on the tip of his tongue.  
  
It doesn't matter if it's true. He _wants_ to say it. And he should.  
  
These are the things he should do, but instead he steps under the spray of the water, to rinse out his hair. He swallows back the things he should do, because he knows they are not the things he _will_ do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to do this, but there will be no DTaH update next weekend! We're so close to the end, but Lyra's going to be at GeekGirlCon next weekend, and can't promise there will be time to put together the update. But we'll be back the weekend of the 15th, for two more chapters.


	26. The Very Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the end of the world Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler have built for themselves out of death. But even as they put themselves to rights, as they don their armour and become the gods they prefer to be rather than the humans they have exposed themselves to be, can they really be as untouched as they were before? Or have they changed each other so fundamentally that they are no longer the people who died in London and Karachi?

A part of her expects him to pull her back, expects him to reach for her and expects the feel of his fingertips against her wrist in the ritual that is more intimate than sex, that is their vulnerability and their weakness and their chemistry stripped down on display. A part of her expects and is glad it does not come, because she cannot tangle herself in him forever, that leaving is the only way to preserve both themselves and each other and what they are.  
  
He does not reach for her and she steps out of the shower with a sigh of relief as she draws a breath of air into her lungs, an inhale that was cool with the recycled air of the hotel's climate control, stripped of the moisture of the shower, rather than warm air thick with water vapour and heavy with sentiment. Irene reaches for a towel, wraps the plush length of it against her body, and takes another, wrapping it around her hair to wick away the moisture. She sets a third towel on the heating rack and turns it on, leaves it for him, and steps out of the washroom.  
  
The carpet is thick and soft against her bare feet, and she cannot help but remember the feel of it against her skin as he'd pulled her to him in a tangle of limbs after they'd fallen to the floor. Irene swallows it back, and calls the front desk, calls for dinner and the packages waiting for them to be sent up.  
  
The concierge is helpful, chirps that food and their requests will be sent up as soon as possible, and Irene thanks the young man mechanically before setting the phone back on its hook and stepping over to the windows, standing in front of the still-tied back curtains, staring out at the Kremlin.

 

She leaves, and he is alone. He realizes, suddenly, that if he wanted to cry, he could. If he wanted to break down completely, this would be the opportunity, this would be the time.  
  
He doesn't cry. He doesn't think he would know how. Instead, he puts his hands on the cool tiles and lets the water run over his head, slicking down his dark curls. His hair is longer, now. It's going to be wild when he dries it. He's going to look a fright, even though he's clean.  
  
He's going to be lonely. Lonelier than he was when he left John behind. Oh, he'll be returning to John, and soon, but he was always returning to John. He'll never really be returning to the Woman. There will only be temporary jaunts. Holidays with definite ends.  
  
Every part of him is crying out for some sort of a release, in the way that he does right before orgasm. That sharp, painful desire is there---but it isn't _pleasure_ , it's pain. An embarrassingly sharp, consuming pain. He thinks that right now would be the right time _to_ cry, if ever there was one. He still does not cry.  
  
He turns off the shower and steps out. The Woman has left him a towel on the heater, and he is grateful for the warmth as he steps back into the room.

 

She does not have to look to know he has stepped out of the washroom. The sound of the shower turning off, the feel of a sudden soft breeze of warm moist air as the door opens, the sound of the door opening. All of it tells that despite the thick carpet muffling the most obvious sounds of footsteps.  
  
She keeps looking out at the Kremlin, at the sky slowly brightening with pre-dawn light, with sunrise approaching. She supposes between their time with Utkin and their liaison, it is possible, and not very surprising that the entirety of the night would have slipped by them.  
  
"I've discovered an entirely irritating limitation to pregnancy," she says, keeping her voice carefully, almost painfully casual. "The inability to indulge in a cigarette."  
  
When was the last time she had truly wanted to smoke to calm her nerves? To give her back a modicum of control? That first year of law school, she thinks. Or possibly the second, at the most.

 

His hands are already on his own pack as she speaks, and he puts it down. He doesn't so much because it would be cruel to her---she can, of course, handle the disappointment of no smoking---but because the second-hand smoke would affect the bundle of cells in her body. The child.  
  
He looks at the phone, at the way it's shifted, and then to the door.  
  
"You ordered dinner, and our things," he says. "How long?"

 

If she does not turn to look, she can almost pretend this is not the end, or perhaps that it has already ended and she is alone, that his question is a disconnected voice on a mobile. No, they'd never stoop to something so mundane as a phone call. If she heard his voice while alone, it would be a figment of her imagination, a goad by her brain to plot better, to _impress_.  
  
She keeps her attention on the window for another few seconds before she turns, before she unwraps her hair from its towel and lets it fall free against her back, the still damp strands cool against her warm skin.  
  
"The concierge says it will only be a few minutes," she answers. Not the actual answer to the question, of course. "He's lying, of course. The staff is busy with changing shifts this time of day, both in the kitchen at the desk. It'll take them time to locate everything again. Half an hour at the earliest. Perhaps longer."

 

He cinches the towel at his waist, oddly more for an armor against the immodesty they allow for each other. The free nudity they allowed before isn't going to be possible anymore, the allowed sexuality, the openness.  
  
"I can write down my cipher," he says. "It will take you time with the map, but it will be a good start."  
  
Thirty minutes. Maybe slightly more. And then he'll dress, maybe eat something, and leave. Be gone. End this.  
  
The tension in the room is thick and hard. It's difficult to wade through.

 

Even with the cool, drier air in the hotel room, it is hard to breathe in the room with him. But then it had never been the water, been the humidity that'd made their conversation difficult, made it hard to breathe. It had always been the tension between them, the knowledge that this is the end of their holiday, the sentiment that hangs heavy between them that makes breathing difficult.  
  
She looks at him, watches and studies him as he cinches the towel tighter around his hips. Sentiment makes them clothe themselves in armour, when before intellect had made her walk into battle nude. Sentiment changes them, no matter how hard they try to deny it.  
  
"I could be insulted at the idea that I'd need your cipher," she says, and there is a note of weariness in her voice, of wanting to be _done_ with this sentimental tension and yet wanting to linger in it. "Perhaps I should be. Have a nice loud row about it all. It'll make it easier to leave."  
  
Admitting she finds it difficult to leave now.

 

He pauses, confused.  
  
"Fighting will make it easier for me to leave," he repeats. "I could just leave. No waiting for the clothing. I had hoped for food, but..."

 

"You wouldn't have to wait for your brother to rescue you from Serbia if you walked out now," she reminds him with a small smile on her lips.  
  
She turns back towards the window, the sky now lightening to blue, promising a clear, cloudless day, at least for a while. "You could have left then too, after we disposed of your brother in the construction zone. And yet here we are. Would you have preferred it if I had walked away after Utkin's warehouse?"

 

"Would you?"  
  
It's a safe answer. He prefers the safety of it to the reality that no, he wouldn't. He would rather the lingering pain of now, to have the precious moments they had before. The sting of the comedown was worth the high, even if right now he's in pain.  
  
"And I will wait for my brother in Serbia. Having him come for me is the most logical and fastest way to return to London. I expect I'll be back there in about four weeks." A pause. "Maybe five."

 

They are tiptoeing around each other again. And perhaps it's better this way, that they speak of sentiment in veiled circuitous routes rather than painful honesty that would force them to admit to sentiment.  
  
"Manhattan is well connected. I'm sure the news will make it across an ocean as soon as you do." The sun continues to rise, and Irene reaches out to undo the curtain tie with one swift yank, letting the curtains fall closed, hiding the day away for just a few minutes longer. She turns back to him then, crosses her arms under her breasts, the amethyst ring on her left hand winking in the light of the carefully positioned lamps.  
  
"I can see the headlines now. 'The Return of Sherlock Holmes.'"

 

He smiles. "You're not going to Manhattan." Because if she were, she wouldn't be telling him.  
  
The twinkle of the light on her hand reminds him of the ring on his own finger, the one he has yet to remove. The wedding band that has been on his hand for so long, that has become part of his movements, part of the weight of his hand. He's never been one to wear jewelry, never been one to think about it.  
  
He slips it from his hand, and clenches and unclenches his fist. The skin feels different there; cooler and tauter. The skin is a shade lighter, but only a shade. By the time he returns to London, it will have tanned to his original skin tone. As though the ring had never been there.  
  
He takes a step towards her, and reaches down for her wrist, to place the ring in the palm of the Woman's hand.

 

Something twists in the pit of her stomach as she feels the heavy weight of the ring in the palm of her hand. Something that she does not want to feel and yet cannot imagine being without. She works the amethyst ring from her finger, and sets it in the palm of her hand with the simple circlet.  
  
The ring has not left a tan line on her finger, since she has switched it between left and right hand as the disguise has necessitated, but her hand feels empty without it.  
  
"A new ring bought to match the heirloom," she says. "She's had hers longer, by a few months. Whirlwind engagement then, quick marriage. Smitten with each other, you can tell from the fact that the interiors aren't noticeably cleaner. He never takes it off. She wears hers constantly, even in inappropriate situations, probably cut a few cheekbones on it."  
  
She laughs quietly, her eyes on his. It all sounds so ordinary when she lays it out that way. Irene curls her fingers over the rings, hiding them from view. "And what does it say about the owners, that their jewelry is no longer on their fingers?"

 

"Marriages don't end before they go bad unless something else keeps them apart," Sherlock says. And something is certainly keeping them apart, he and the Woman.  
  
Themselves. Their desires, their own personas. Their own personalities.  
  
"There's no bitterness, otherwise he wouldn't have her keep it, he'd have worked another way to be rid of it."

 

Another quiet nod, a laugh, and she reaches for his hand before thinking better of it and lets her hand fall back to her side.  
  
"If it had gone bad they would have sold each other's," she agrees. "She thinks it's sentimental to keep them. But she won't sell them. Keep them for a holiday, perhaps."

 

"Neither of them are sentimental, both of these rings must be stolen. The sentimentality is entirely from the theft and the story behind it," Sherlock says. "Both of them worn long past the theft itself. Long into the holiday."  
  
He looks up to her. "Kotor wasn't so long ago, was it?"

 

She will keep them, of course, at least for a while. She will send the band back to Baker Street, someday. Because while she will keep the amethyst ring out of sentiment, out of the memory of their meeting in Kotor and all their subsequent liaisons, she does not like the idea of keeping his ring. Any more than she'd like the idea of keeping him. They have each other in hidden moments, not in _things_.  
  
The ring will return to Baker Street, when she is certain it is safe for it to. She expects it will live in the drawer next to her mobile, hidden away in a corner of his flat.  
  
"A few months and a lifetime ago." It is at once agreement and disagreement all at once. And yet utterly true.  
  
There is a knock on the door. Quick, professional, three fingers against the wood.

 

A lifetime ago. How _apt_ , he wants to say, but they are interrupted.  
  
"Three raps," he says, half turning his head. "Maximum force on the second rap, emphasizing a need for timeliness."  
  
Concierge and food service.  
  
_If it was the end of the world,_ she had said to him once, her lips only a breath from his. _If this were the very last night---would you have dinner with me?_ Her pulse had raced under his fingertips, and he almost understood her. A sentiment that was almost but not quite shared.  
  
They were interrupted then, too.  
  
"Too late," he says, quietly.

 


	27. The End of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Montenegro to Russia, the ghosts of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler have traveled in a variety of disguises, but now, at the end of their world, on the very last night, they have been stripped of every disguise and every defense. They have indulged in their brilliance and their sentiment, but it is something that cannot last, and all that is left is to return to the lives of the Consulting Detective and the Woman, and be extraordinary, the emotionless machine, the dominatrix that ruled with lace and leather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For our readers and our friends

"Too late," she agrees, stepping out of the bubble, out of the near-magnetic orbit of him that she is so often caught in, so often tempted to be caught by.  
  
It makes her wonder idly if there had ever been a time when this would not have been too late. If there would have ever been a time when they could have captivated each other and stayed as they are, stayed extraordinary and fascinated and together. That night in Baker Street had been too late, even if he had understood, if he had said yes then. Too many things had already been set in motion at that point, the game already marching to an end.  
  
Perhaps in university, though Irene doubts it. Perhaps they will simply always be too late because they have been too long too much themselves, and stolen moments are all they can manage with everything between them.  
  
She makes for the door, for the concierge and room service, checking the peephole just in case.

 

He waits, watching her go for the door. There would be no way they could work out, he thinks. He has always been too much himself to maintain a relationship stronger than that of friendship. Sometimes, Sherlock genuinely believes his friendship with John Watson won't maintain, either (though he doesn't think of that for very long, because the idea is far too upsetting to continue.)  
  
He glances at the clock by the bed. He can't stay long. Change, eat something, and leave. He'll have time to say good-bye, and go. And that's all. Nothing more. No more delays, no more sentiment. He's _lingered_.  
  
He looks back at the Woman. She's worth lingering for.

 

The concierge who comes up with a covered cart, packages stacked in the lower level, food on the upper, is fresh-faced and bright-eyed, clearly not the same one who'd been on duty when they'd arrived. He wheels in the cart, and with a single glance at their states of dress, simply bows out without offering any more help. The Baltschug Kempinski trained its employees well in discretion.  
  
Irene lets the door close behind him, and her mind returns to the memory of Montreal, where they had terrorized a bellhop in Mycroft's employ. She'll miss that too.  
  
"I suppose it'd be more appropriate to call this breakfast," she says. "But then you were never hungry for dinner."

 

"Yes, but it's been too long since either of us have eaten," he says.  
  
He steps over to the cart, and immediately reaches down for the package. The one he sent so long ago. Then, out of fear that the Woman might read it. And now, he's handing it over to her willingly. It's months old, now. He peels the top off and pulls the folded-up map out, turning towards the table to lay it down.  
  
This, he can focus on this. It's better than focusing on the leaving.  
  
The map is lined with tabs and strings linking various people and businesses. They're written in code, Sherlock's own code, but there are articles and pictures also plastered on the map. It's decipherable, but full of a lot of information.  
  
"It's everything I'd worked on before we met in Kotor," he says.

 

She checks briskly for the other packages in the cart to ensure they are all accounted for before she picks up a croissant and brings it over to the table where he's spread out his map. At first glance, the map is madness, is confusing and indecipherable. But on second look, she can begin to see a pattern, connections to make, even if the meaning of individual pieces are lost to her in a code she cannot yet read.  
  
Irene idly breaks the croissant in half, and offers him one of the two pieces as she continues staring at the map. "You'd been busy," she says, her eyes roaming over the spread of information. She has always known that Jim Moriarty's network was vast, but to see it played out in names and businesses and faces makes it at once smaller and larger than she'd imagined.  
  
She takes a bite of the croissant in her hand, and taps at a picture of the man they'd left dead in a warehouse only hours ago, and traces the lines from him. Nicolai Utkin's human trafficking ring had been impressive, though localized to Russia, and connected to more than a few legitimate businesses that would now feel a vacuum in their structure. Useful, that.  
  
"Perhaps I shouldn't have let you had Utkin," she says without heat. It is almost teasing as she looks over the map. "I didn't realize you were costing me both a money laundering operation and an entire franchise of beauty supply shops."

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and gestures to a picture of a diminutive dark-skinned woman attached to the southern end of Russia. "She can rebuild it for you, if you really want it," he says. "But once you decipher the number I have attached to the shops, you probably won't want to."  
  
But she's teasing. And he---he's wasting time. He has clothing to don. And a cipher to write. And a door to walk through.  
  
He picks up a napkin and writes the first few letters of the cipher down. Just the first. A, B, and E. After a pause, he writes down J, too. The rest are child's play, she'll have them within a few hours, at the most. He puts the napkin on the map, and turns to pick up the package with his torn clothing.

 

She sets the rings down on top of the napkin with his cipher, the letters of which she has already committed to memory, and a part of her is already working to unravel the rest. It will be good, she thinks, to have that to occupy her for a few hours in the airport, on an airplane.  
  
Perhaps she _will_ go to Manhattan. He will not expect her there because she's told him that is where she is going. Or Sydney. She will not go back to Vienna for Sibyl. She will have the other woman meet her somewhere else. Somewhere free from their holiday.  
  
She looks over the map again, pleased that Vienna is relatively untouched, that Sibyl is not a part of his web and thus had not been a part of Sherlock Holmes' calculations. London is glaringly empty, and she laughs quietly at it. She will leave London to Sherlock Holmes. Unless she wants his attention.  
  
She draws two sides of the map together, folds it loosely to cover the temptation to pore over the wealth of information now at her fingertips, and stares down at the table, the covered map and all that is implied and unspoken here. She does not watch him pick up his clothing, does not watch him dress, not yet.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
The words feel awkward on her tongue. She is not in the habit of _thanking_ people, not truly. But this... this is something she cannot let pass without reciprocation.

 

His thumbs run over the torn collar, the expensive clothing now ruined beyond repair. It's the right costume, the right armor for this battle.  
  
He starts to pull it over his naked shoulders when he hears her speak. Hears her thank him. They don't---they don't _do_ that, do they? Thank each other? Do they? Has he ever thanked her, for all she's done for him? Because it has been a lot, hasn't it? She's saved his life. She's changed him. In oh, so many ways.  
  
He doesn't turn to face her, he simply nods, and he slips the first button through the eyelet on his shirt.  
  
"You're welcome," he says.

 

Simple words. Simple, ordinary sentiments. They make each other so _ordinary_. It is for the best that they are parting.  
  
She folds the map over in on itself, careful to keep the rings and the cipher in the center, where they cannot be accidentally lost, and puts the map back in its package. She can hear him start to dress, to pull on his armour, one sleeve, one button at a time.  
  
Irene heads over to the cart and picks up the two packages that are left for her. One is larger, from the boutique, and she sets it on the bed. The other is smaller, and without opening it she knows what is inside. A necklace of black and grey pearls, trimmed with drops like blood. She'd had it sent along, after St. Petersburg. It had seemed fitting, at the time.  
  
She opens the boutique's box and sheds her towel, starting to slip on the undergarments of silk and lace before she picks up the dress within, of deep bottle green velvet. She does not look over her shoulder at him, to either watch him dress or to see if he is watching her.

 

He dons the shirt first, then lets the towel drop before he picks up the trousers. They, too, have been carefully torn in all of the right places to create the illusion of being away from the world. Only the Woman and Mycroft would know the difference, and neither of them would be seeing him in this outfit for more than a few moments.  
  
He glances over at her once. Just once. She's putting on a green velvet dress. Her skin is milky and pale, and the color suits her. Had he known that it would hurt like this, he tells himself, he would have still stopped her in Kotor, still asked for the money for the cigarettes. The high is worth the pain of the comedown.  
  
He fastens the zip, and his chest hurts.  
  
No, no, perhaps not. Perhaps he should have simply let her walk by.

 

It takes her three tries to fasten the garters to her new nylons. Three tries on something that is so familiar as to be rote, to be nothing but muscle memory. Irene tells herself it is the new garments and their subtle differences, and certainly not the hollow gnawing in her chest, not the harsh knot in her throat that she swallows past, and certainly not the heavy lump in her stomach that was not a single solitary bite of croissant.  
  
She should have walked away in Kotor, should have never followed the note folded into his bills, never followed it to a hotel address. But if she had, she would still be drifting through death, drifting through petty misbehaviours and ephemeral schemes. Dull. No she never would have walked away, even if everything in her is full of fear for and of the Inconvenience growing within her, and full of pain for the steps out the door that she will take alone.  
  
She steps into the green velvet dress and it fits her like a glove, flatters and emphasizes her body while sheathing it all, leaving her untouchable. Yes, this is what she needs to be, cold and implacable again. There is lipstick too in the box, and she smiles at that. A shade nearly the one she herself favoured. She opens the other package, lets the chain of pearls run through her fingers before she speaks. She doesn't turn around, not yet, though she does ask, in a steady, brittle voice.  
  
"Will you do me up?"

 

He has almost taken a step towards the door before she speaks. Almost taken a step away from her, a step towards leaving without a word before she calls him back. He very nearly ignores her, but---no, no, there's no _very nearly_. He would never ignore her. He can't pretend that. She calls, he comes. That is the way of things.  
  
He turns and steps towards her, reaching out for her back, to zip up the luxurious dress.  
  
"Quite the armor you have for tonight," he murmurs.  
  
A compliment.

 

He stands close to her, the radiant warmth of his body against her skin. She hates the fact that some small tension leeches out of her body at the feel of him near, hates the fact that she draws a long slow breath as he slides the zipper all the way up the deep green velvet.  
  
She offers him the choker of pearls he'd given her before, and moves to pull her hair aside, up and out of the way of her throat. "If I'm to reign over a criminal empire, I should dress the part, don't you think?" she answers, just as quietly.

 

"I imagine you could wear that boy's disguise you donned back in Europe and still be the part, Woman," he says. "After all, they are _really_ just a self-portrait, aren't they?"  
  
Her words. Brilliant words, all of them. Everything she's said, even the things that drove him mad. The things that still drive him mad, the things he still can't counteract.  
  
He takes the pearls and fastens them, and finds his hands are shaking. An embarrassing sign of emotion, and one he can't seem to control. The clasp still takes, and he lets his hands rest on her shoulder for half a heartbeat longer than he should.

 

"Always."  
  
She feels his hands unsteadily hooking the necklace at the nape of her neck, but it catches and she says nothing about it, does not need to take the necklace into her own hands to fasten it. Not that she expects she can do much better, given how many tries it took her to hook her garters.  
  
His hands are warm on her shoulder, warm and _comforting_ and she hates how he steadies her even as she feels like she could unravel at a word. She hates having to _be_ steadied, that he has gotten so far under her skin that disengaging, untangling from him could be so difficult.  
  
But she will miss this. Will miss _him_ despite being able to read of his adventures.  
  
She reaches up for his hand, but the extra heartbeat is gone before she realizes and she finds herself about to catch empty air, and instead moves her hand to reach for her hair, to hide the fact that she had reached for a presence that will no longer be there very soon. She begins twisting the length of her hair up, into an elaborate coif as she turns to face him, forcing herself to the routine of putting herself together as she studies him.  
  
"A man long away from the world," she says, nodding at his carefully worn clothes and the carefully torn shirt. "Spent too much time away from _polite society_." Her lips twist with no little sarcasm at the last two words, and she gestures to the sleeves. "Did he enjoy his time away, I wonder?"

 

His hands have moved away, but he does not step back. She radiates warmth, sexuality, danger, a _presence_ that is unlike any other person on the planet, and he wishes to simply bask in her for another moment longer. She turns to face him, to study him, and he carefully secures his face, removes the admiration there before it betrays him.  
  
"I imagine that is not too difficult a deduction to make," he replies, tucking the pack of cigarettes in his pocket.  
  
He should eat. He should grab a croissant and some of the whipped eggs they have and put protein in his body, and some carbohydrates for the long ride he has ahead, as well as the weeks he'll be spending in this torn suit. He doesn't know the next time he _can_ eat, and he should. He should right now.  
  
He doesn't, of course. He doesn't have the appetite.  
  
He should text Mycroft. Inform him of his next step, start the chase now. Limit the weeks of danger, get everything moving. Think of this as a time away and less of a _punishment_ for a crime that he can't quite figure out if he's committed.  
  
He doesn't, of course. He leaves the mobile on the table.  
  
He should tell the Woman he loves her. He looks up at her, pristine and perfect, hiding every clue that she is just like he is, all twists and turns and danger and darkness. Hiding the bundle of cells in her body and keeping all notion that they are there out of sight, and no one, not even Mycroft Holmes, would know. The epitome of her sex. He should tell her he loves her.  
  
He doesn't, of course. He turns to start towards the door.

 

"If you're going to leave without saying goodbye, you should at least eat with me."  
  
The words escape her before she can keep them in, and Irene turns away from him to pick up the folded map and all it contains. It is, in a way, as much his mind as her camera phone had been her heart. The map and all its distilled information, coded and carefully recorded, filed away. And now in her hands.  
  
Perhaps it is fitting.  
  
She thinks that it is too late now to drug him, to slip something fast acting into his food, to ensure that she can leave before him, can leave him behind rather than the other way around. Too late. Too late.

 

Sherlock stops at the door again, his hand above the knob. He turns to look back at her.  
  
He wants to linger. He wants to eat with her, to hold onto the holiday. He wants it to last. He wants to tell her that he wants it to last. The words---the words he keeps thinking he should tell her but he can't, he wants to say them, but he can't.  
  
And she doesn't want him to say goodbye. Good-byes are useless words, like hellos. They're just words, they don't mean anything, and the Woman must know that. No. She wants him to stay. In a way, that odd admission is harder than simply leaving.  
  
But he can't stay.  
  
If he stays now, he'll never leave.  
  
That tightness in his chest is back. That feeling that he's tight, about to burst, it's back. But he swallows it, takes a breath.  
  
"Good-bye, Miss Adler."

 

She turns to him, and her grip does not loosen on the map as she crosses the room in four quick strides, sweeping up to the door in velvet and pearls, a spark of something dark and furious in eyes that gleam with suspicious, ruthlessly suppressed moisture.  
  
She says nothing at all in response to his goodbye, and instead pulls him to her, her hand twining tight in his hair as she crushes her lips to his. Her kiss is fierce and thorough, as if she is intent on marking him despite the care they took to leave no trace of themselves on each other, as if she is intent on drawing some part of him back into herself with brutal efficiency.  
  
The hand holding the map, the hand that is not curled tight in his hair, reaches for the doorknob, and she has given it a quarter turn before she speaks, before she breaks the kiss with her words,  
  
"Until the next time, Mr. Holmes."

 

He feels the grip in her hair, and the intensity with which she kisses him, and he tries to not feel anything. Sherlock Holmes would not feel anything. Sherlock Holmes would hold ice in his heart as he spoke coldly about love like it was a chemical defect. And he is trying to be Sherlock Holmes again. He is trying. He is trying, and then he just _can't_.  
  
He puts an arm around her waist and kisses her back. Her brutal intensity matched with his. And they are the same, in that way. Her in her pearls and velvet and he with his wild hair and torn suit. They are the same as they kiss desperately, one last time in an expensive hotel in Russia. One last goodbye.  
  
A sniper's bullet didn't hurt this much.  
  
He can taste her lipstick still on his mouth, but he doesn't wipe it away. He takes a little bite of it and he can taste her; the Woman in all that waxy red.  
  
"I look forward to it," he says, and a ghost of a smile touches his lips.

 

She kisses him because she wants this to hurt, wants their parting to hurt _him_ but inflicting pain on him, feeling him give in and the warm weight of his arm around her waist does not stop the way her own stomach twists, the way something in her own chest clenches as she breaks away. To make him feel does not keep her from doing so, all it does is ensure that their pain is mutual.  
  
She wants to remind him that he does not love her, and that she will not love him. But the words do not come, the words of the well-rehearsed lie that should be so easy on her tongue refuse to form and she pulls away from him with the lipstick at the corner of her mouth smudged, with her fingernails digging crescents into her palm rather than his scalp.  
  
"Good," is all she manages as she finishes turning the doorknob and pushes the door open. She is not certain in this moment whether she will walk out the door first, or if he will.  
  
It should matter, which one of them does. It doesn't.

 

It never occurs to him that she might want to leave. She has dinner, and the comfort of this place, and everything that she might need for starting over the next few days. When the door is opened, it is assumed, to him, that he is to step out of it.  
  
Sherlock Holmes always has the last word, _always_. Even on this holiday, he has verbally sparred with her so often that he can't even attempt to recall all of their words without properly thinking about it. And now, _now_ , he has the opportunity to say one last thing before he leaves.  
  
But he doesn't. Not this time. He leaves the Woman with the last word, and steps into the hall.  
  
There, the door. There, the Woman. Here, the hall. There, the lift. He steps forward, focusing on what is ahead, because he doesn't dare look behind, in case he stops dead where he walks.

 

He does not linger, and for that Irene is relieved. He steps into the hall, and she lets him go, her fingernails biting into the palm of her hand, one small pain to distract from the others. One small pain, a steadying breath. She lets him go, counts the steps it would take him to reach for the lift. She should wait until she hears the lift arrive, hears the ding announcing his departure, but the room for all its luxury is empty, and the remnants of _them_ are thick in the room.  
  
The half-spent candle snuffed out and left on the carpet, wax spilling into the carpet fibers. The wrinkled sheets and the repurposed carpet ties.  
  
No, food or no, luxury or no, she will not stay in the room any longer than necessary. She gives him half the steps to the lift before she walks out of the room herself, heading in the opposite direction.  
  
Their holiday had started in Montenegro with nothing more than an exchanged bank note, a piece of paper tucked within exchanging hands. It ends with papers in her hand, papers that were as much Sherlock Holmes' mind as any physical object, exchanging hands again.  
  
_Until the next time..._

 

Sherlock gets to the lift, and he presses the button. His hand shakes as he goes for the pack of cigarettes, but it's steady as he brings it to his lips.  
  
The Woman produces a ball of sentiment, he tells himself. Like an orbit, or gravity, or one of those other physics things that John tried to explain to him once but Sherlock still can't possibly care about. But in this case, that would _work_. The further away from her orbit he gets, the easier it is. He can feel less sentiment.  
  
He tells himself this as he steps into the lift and doesn't look back.  
  
He tells himself this as he lights the cigarette just as he steps outside. He takes a drag. It burns, nothing at all like the Woman's touch. It would only take a moment to turn around and go back to the room.  
  
He does not turn around.  
  
Forward, always forward.  
  
_Until the next time..._

 

Irene Adler leaves the Baltschug Kempinski by way of a lesser-used set of lifts. She leaves the Baltschug Kempinski with a map and a cipher and a pair of stolen rings, and does not look back. She spends two hours more in Moscow, procuring a passport for one Helena Fisher, and a pair of airplane tickets. One from Moscow to Amsterdam, the other from Vienna to Amsterdam.  
  
She avoids the bus terminal for those hours, and spends her time in the airport terminal with a cup of tea and what appears, to a passerby, to be a crossword puzzle.  
  
By the time her airplane touches down in Amsterdam, three phone calls have been made, and the tattered remnants of a vast criminal underworld shudders in anticipation.  
  
Irene Adler does not look back once to Moscow.

 

It's four weeks until Serbia.  
  
His hair is longer. His beard is wild, his clothes are far more tattered, and his body is _exhausted_. He has infuriated the right people, and brought just enough attention to himself that he can't so much as get a meal without being chased into some ungodly, cold forest. He thinks about the croissants he should have eaten in the Baltshug Kempinski, but only sometimes. He thinks about the Woman regularly.  
  
How is she? He can't look up what she's done, he'll never know what she's accomplished. Not unless he researches, and it will be months before he has access to that. Mycroft will follow him every step of the way until then. No, Sherlock can only wait. Wait, and wonder.  
  
He is captured; of course he's captured. He's beaten, as he expected he would be. His shoulder is recognized as a weak point and his arms are stretched out. A wrench is placed against the tender skin of his old wound, and it _hurts_. The man--an officer---sits watching, seems so amused by it all.  
  
The amusement is, of course, what gives it away.  
  
Sherlock baits the torturer. It's easy. Child's play. Leaving the officer, and Sherlock.  
  
The officer scoots to his feet. His Serbian is perfect. Accentless. " _So, my friend. Now it's just you and me._ "  
  
He leans over where Sherlock is twisted awkwardly to the side, avoiding putting pressure on his shoulder. The officer purrs. " _You have no idea the trouble it took to find you._ "  
  
A hand grips in Sherlock's hair, and the voice comes in English now. In Mycroft's voice. Crisp. Urgent. "Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network acting in London. And a massive attack is imminent."  
  
There's a pause, and Mycroft tilts his head slightly to the side, and Sherlock can't tell if there's genuine apology in his voice or not. "Sorry, but the _holiday_ is over."  
  
Yes, it is. For now.  
  
But it's not the last.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Death Takes A Holiday_ started as a whim, a little exercise in roleplaying, on February 25, 2012. We expected to write an encounter, maybe two, between Sherlock and Irene during the Great Hiatus, but more than 4 years and 500k words later, it's been a monster of a series that came with a staggering amount of support. Thank you to all the readers who have shared this experience with us, and the friends we have made coming out of it. You have all been an incredible and humbling audience. Thank you for sharing this adventure with us.


End file.
